Bring Them to Their Knees
by 24tributes24authors
Summary: The sequel to Tears of Blood begins with the first Quarter Quell-the 25th Annual Hunger Games! 24 Authors represent 24 tributes until only one remains. No one ever "wins" the Hunger Games.
1. Cradle to the Grave

**_Welcome to the sequel to Tears of Blood! If you're reading this and you haven't read Tears of Blood then stop! Go back and read that because this contains lots of spoilers for it. (Also updates are consistently, barring internet malfunctions, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.)_**

**_We're really excited to bring this to you, and we hope that you love reading it as much as we're loving working on it! We've got some incredibly talented new authors, and a host of our old cast returning. Don't worry, we're not going anywhere!_**

**_I would like to address a few concerns though. In the past few days—since the article in WSJ has come out/the conclusion of Tears of Blood, we've received a LOT of PM's from people who are concerned about some other people stealing our ideas._**

**_We are perfectly fine with their being other stories based on this concept, it's flattering! However, what we do have a problem with is people stealing our exact ideas—whether they be arena, tribute names/history/personality, story name/account name, or even one blatant pathetic excuse of a person that started putting Tears of Blood on wattpad, claiming it to be their own._**

**_We've had all three things happen in the past and our goal is for them not to happen again. We encourage people to do their own stories based on the concept, but please use your own ideas. Give us something good and original to read! Yes, there will be some similarities, but there should not be any overwhelmingly so in any one 24 style story._**

**_We'd like to know who else is doing these, so that we can touch base with people so that no one treads on anybodies toes (us on yours or you on ours). We are very reasonable and adult, and we don't want ANY problems with anybody._**

**_So yes, we're not concerned with their being other 24 stories, we are supportive—but our support will end if your story becomes too similar in execution._**

**_Thank you for all of your love! It's really hard and time-consuming to do this story, but it's very rewarding because of the love and kindness that each one of you show us._**

**_Speaking of love and kindness…I suppose you should find out why there's a Quarter Quell from the loving, kind sisters Head Gamemaker Phoenix Aerona Snow and Gamemaker Belles Crowne._**

**_…Yeah maybe not loving and kind…XD_**

**_Note on title: "Cradle to the Grave" is the concept of caring for someone all your life, birth to death._**

* * *

_"It was the coldest night of the year  
Snow-covered street lamps and belvedere  
The moon was just a sliver  
Light was fading  
The war was on its way  
And we were waiting  
You asked me, how long I'd stay by your side  
And so I answered  
With only just one reply  
__Til the casket drops  
__Til my dying day  
__Til my heartbeat stops  
__Til my legs just break  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa,  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa,  
__Til the casket drops"_

_—"Till the Casket Drops" _by ZZ Ward

* * *

**Belles Crowne, Assistant Gamemaker**

**By Isabugg**

* * *

I want to inhale the stars and choke on all the lives they once held. I want to comb my fingers through a thick bed of grass, raise my face toward the sky and feel sheets of sunlight dance on my skin. I want to explore the dark, hidden nooks and crannies of the world, brush away the dust on what once was lost.

But that can only happen once the districts have been sufficiently punished, broken beyond repair with their streets littered with the tears and blood of their inhabitants.

It's only what they deserve after taking away Phoenix's birth father. How _dare_ they, after all the Capitol had given them? They were so uncivilized and barbaric that when we reached out to feed them, they responded by simply chomping on our fingers.

A _war_. They started a_ war_. A war that they lost, obviously, but a war nonetheless. It's despicable. They're lucky the Capitol was so merciful. Personally, I think we should have punished them with much more than the Hunger Games and the so-called 'destruction' of District 13.

Thank the heavens Phoenix—sister dearest, I don't know what I'd do without her—has finally worked her way up to the position of Head Gamemaker. Maybe we can at last give the districts what they deserve.

I think this while I mindlessly sweep my fingers across the smooth, cold surface of a computer screen. Its light makes my paper pale skin glow with a sort of blueish gleam, making me look less human than I already am.

The grinning faces of past and potential future tributes dart across the screen, beaming with strength and youth. It makes me sick. They should be crippled, quivering little crumples of wounds and broken bones. It's what they did to Phoenix's father during the war, after all.

My chest deflates as I let out a long, breathy exhale, skimming over the little blurbs of text under each tribute photograph for mistakes before quickly moving on to the next one. It's a dull job, yes, but a necessary one. I'm Assistant Head Gamemaker this year, and the last thing I'd want is a typo slipping through the system with Phoenix's head on the line, especially with her new son—Coriolanus Snow—finally in the world.

I remember gently placing my palm on Phoenix's rounded belly before looking up and seeing her cheeks flushed with the rosy tint of pregnancy. I remember racing to the Capitol hospital and reaching the door of her room just as her newborn child was placed in her hands, and I remember not being able to suppress the fits of giggles that had bursted out of my lips as I made my way over to her bedside and cupped her face in my palms. _"Your son is almost as beautiful as you, Sister mine."_

With crushing suddenness, my eyes catch a picture of a familiar face—one of District 4's with tumbling locks of dark sienna hair and a hard, locked jaw—and my finger freezes in its place before it can change the screen's contents. I swallow hard, leaning forward in my chair ever so slightly and squinting at the name flashing across the screen: _Moss Dorian. _Across his Training Center photo are bolded red letters reading _DEATH BY [Jules Surket], _and its so bright that I feel a muffled stinging in my eyes.

Without thinking, I let a small smile ghost its way across my lips. Ah, yes, Moss of District 4. One of the more...entertaining deaths from last year's games. One of the more..._outspoken _tributes. My smile grows, and I perch my pointed chin on the edge of my palm as I read through the information in his file.

_ NETWORK: CITIZEN INFORMATION TERMINAL_

_PURSUANT TO PANEM LAW, MATERIALS APPEARING ARE GOVERNMENT-OWNED AND PROTECTED_

_NAME: Moss Dorian_

_DISTRICT: 4_

_GENDER: Male_

My gaze dips down to the bottom of the page, skipping the rest of the basic information. It evolves from short, list-like facts to entire paragraphs retelling his journey through the arena, and soon enough, I found what I was looking for: the speech. It was recorded down to every last word, every pause and even every hitch in his breath.

_"Everyone I cared about, [3.61 second pause, rapid pulse rate increase] everyone I loved in this damn arena is dead."_

I tilt my head to the side, taking a strand of my scarlet hair and innocently twirling it between my fingers as I read on.

_"...So I must have won, right? [increase in body temp 37.839° C to 38.294° C] Isn't that the point of these fucking Games?"_

The corners of my mouth curl upwards into a sweet smile, like poison swirled with honey. Oh, Moss. You have no idea how much power you've given us with those words. You have no idea just how much suffering we can wreak upon the districts, using your pathetic little outcry as a justification. Phoenix and I really should thank you.

The tributes won't be prepared for what we're giving them. It'll be bloody, unforgiving, heart-wrenching. We've played with the name a bit, tried to make it seem less horrifying than it actually is.

I tap the pad of my finger on the corner of the screen, and it wipes away the tribute information before replacing it with a lengthy document Phoenix had been working on throughout her pregnancy.

Across the top of it are two words, bolded and menacing:

_QUARTER QUELL_

I only have time to reread a single line of the small print underneath it—"_to be held every twenty-five years"—_before the booming sound of double doors bursting open echoes behind me, making me clench my jaw as it reverberates in my skull. Quickly and viciously, I sweep my hand across the computer screen to cloak its contents, unable to hide the dark scowl wriggling on my lips as I do so.

I hear the strident click-clacking of high heels stepping toward me. "Assistant Gamemaker Belles! I have important information to share with y—"

I sharply swivel my computer chair around, tightly grasping on the edges of my armrests until my knuckles become even whiter than my already pale flesh. "How about _knocking_ next time?" I hiss. It takes me a moment to register the woman who had just plowed into my office, her chestnut hair falling in waves across her shoulders and her features gradually twisting with a mixture of utter surprise and fright. I can't even remember her name, the useless hag, but I remember working across from her for last year's games. With a deep breath, I relax my death-grip and force a sweet grin to taper on my features. "I'm oh-so very sorry." _No I'm not. _"I'm a little jumpy after-hours." _And when I'm in the company of incompetent idiots._ "Please, have a seat. Make yourself at home." _Please proceed to go die in a fire._

The nameless woman flashes me a fleeting smile before skittishly finding her way to one of the wooden chairs that lay askew to my desk, her back ramrod straight and her lipstick-coated mouth held firmly in a bloodless line. "No, really, it's my fault, Miss. Coming in here without an invitation, how rude of me."

My eyebrows twitch upward at her, but I make sure to maintain my polite air. "Oh, nonsense. No need to apologize. What did you need to tell me, anyway?" I say. _Just spit it out, bitch, _I think. My eyes crinkle as my smile broadens.

She lets out a slight breath of nervous laughter. "Not tell, Miss. _Show."_ Her shoulders rise a bit as she sets a single piece of paper on my desk, a faint tremble in her willowy fingers.

I grip at the material of my dress as I lean forward, my cat-like eyes scanning the paper. It looks like it had just flown out of the printer, its ink slightly smudged at the edges, but I can still discern what it is in an instant. "The list of tributes for the 25th Hunger Games?"

"Oh, yes. The official list." The woman smiles. "Very important, Miss. That's why I came running."

Tentatively, I take the list away from where it lays on my desk to take a closer look. The paper is warm—freshly printed, just as I thought—and the names on it are all familiar. Of course, I had studied all the possible candidates like my life had depended on it, soaked in all their information until I knew them all like old friends.

"It's strange, though, isn't it?"

I dart my gaze upward, my eyes digging into the woman like daggers.

She swiftly leans backward, as if she felt the impact of my eyes. "W-Well, I mean, Miss...It's just that the reapings weren't even held yet. How can we...How can this list even—exist?"

The corner of my mouth quirks. A genuine smile, for once. "Oh, you see, this year's games are very...different," I chuckle, like a slight vibrato in my trilling voice.

I register the look of confusion on the woman's face, but I don't care to tend to it. Instead, I get up from my chair and begin walking out of my office. I must show this list to Phoenix as quickly as possible.

* * *

_"A house made out of glass, will surely shatter_  
_So we built a fortress, of red bricks and ladders_  
_The ground, it started shaking_  
_The bombs are falling_  
_But we could've walked away_  
_We had a warning_  
_And you asked me, how long I'd stay by your side_  
_And so I answered_  
_With only just one reply_  
_Til the casket drops  
__Til my dying day  
__Til my heartbeat stops  
__Til my legs just break  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa,  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa  
__Whoa, whoa, whoa,  
__Til the casket drops  
__So lay your burden down baby  
__And lead me out the door  
__We can't escape this ricochet  
__I'm ready for this war"_

_—_The other half of the song,_ "The Casket Drops" _by ZZ Ward.

* * *

**Phoenix Aerona Snow, Head Gamemaker**

**By Phoenix Refrain**

* * *

The crisp sheet of paper is placed on my desk. My eyes fall on it, and I push back a strand of hair before my fingers reach for it greedily. Months, no years, of planning have come to this—one, solitary piece of paper lined with twenty-four names.

My hand touches the screen of my computer, and opens a few files—already prepared and waiting for me, twenty-four neat files that contain absolutely everything I need to know about this year's tributes. I can feel the corners of my mouth pulling up into a smile as Belles enters the room, it isn't long before she's leaning her head against my shoulder to read with me.

There's the D1's, strong and experienced—Admire Blanchard was definitely willing to get her hands dirty. My eyes skim down the list, two good stand-outs from two as to be expected. District three had the illegitimate son of a Peacekeeper. My hand glides over the screen and brings up the Peacekeeper's file, just as I thought—he'd been training his son, attempting to hide him from the Capitol's eye. Foolish man, why the hell would we care who he screwed while he was in the Districts? The girl though…she was…interesting.

My fingers glide over the screen before I speak, "This one." Belles nods her head in agreement before we continue on. District four—typical. District five, boring. District six, same old story of drug addicts. Seven—the mayor's son! Too bad, I hadn't anticipated that one—we could have offered him a deal to save him but it's not a big loss really. Eight is unimpressive as is nine, but there it is—right there on the page the name I knew would be coming.

_District 10: Sean Armani, brother of Aleah Armani of the 24th Games._

I lean back from the desk—barely skimming over the rest of the names. Boring, boring, and more boring. The notes on the bottom of the sheet are well researched. The names of the tributes whose family had bribed them in to winning, the boy who's name had been voted because of the issues he caused…How foolish, they were thinking that they we wouldn't know about their attempts. Luckily for them, I really don't care what they do. I couldn't care less for who most of the tributes are. By all means, bribe their way into the games if they want—I don't care which of them I kill really. They're all just from the districts.

I wonder what Aleah Armani is thinking now that she knows that her brother will likely be voted into the arena? Probably wishing she hadn't been so horrid or uncooperative to me when I'd paid her a visit. All she had to do was comply—then no matter what the votes were, her brother would have been safe.

Now, she'll do what we say or else her brother won't stand a chance in the arena. She'll beg, I'll see to it that whatever pride she has left is stripped away. Where once, I would have guaranteed her brother's safety—I will only guarantee that she will have help, a chance. Then of course, if she doesn't comply—well, she'll watch him die horrifically in the arena until there's nothing left to send home to her. There's nothing worse than a non-compliant victor—better they're dead or completely broken.

Alex Zervakos happens to be a model of a Victor—pretty much dead inside after the present I sent him on the estimated due date of his child—had it been born. A perfectly white porcelain doll with a green dress, and red haired curls cascading down its back. Perfect blue eyes looking at him, judging him for failing her and her mother. A tiny little note pinned to her dress,

_It was a girl, Alex._

A cry tears me away from my thoughts, and I go over to Coriolanus' bassinet where he sits where he's pulled himself up. His hands reach for me and grab into the tangles of my hair as he smiles all the way to his dark black eyes—the eyes of my father…my eyes before I had their colour changed. They'd been too frightening for most people—like the eyes of a snake, they said.

Belles leaves me alone in my office, as I feed Coriolanus in the comfort of seclusion. His hands stay tangled in my hair as he suckles. His hair is dark, like his father's, but his features are fine, like mine. It's hard to believe now that there was a moment when I had thought of him as something to be taken care of, something I didn't want, and something I'd been tricked into. But as he grew inside of me against my will because of his father's meddling, I found that he was more like me than anyone but my sister.

However, that didn't change the fact that his traitor of a father had outlasted his usefulness. I was set up in a way that with him gone, I would inherit this position. My plans were all laid together—it was the perfect timing really since these games were almost all of my own conceptions. Why should I not take full credit for them? After all, I look good all in black.

I can't help but smile as I realize how easily really it has all come together. Meeting Vesperus Snow, meeting his parents…then their tragic demise and the Avox who took the blame—hacked them up into little pieces, they said. The perfect opportunity for me to step in and console him right into bed and the palm of my hand. It was easy after that.

Last year, he heard my idea—said it was his own—and started the planning. He never realized that it was just a starting point, just the first domino in a pattern that I was setting up. The thing about giving tributes a virus that makes you go crazy means there's bound be crazy things done and most importantly—said. Easy to let things flow, let the tributes descend into madness until someone said something against the Capitol. It was bound to happen—teenage hormones, crazy virus, and death everywhere. Someone would try to light a fuse that would let the next step of my plan come into action.

Moss Dorian was that tribute.

His crazy little tirade struck a note of anger in the President that I stoked into a fire. Moss' speech was more beautiful than I had imagined or even hoped for in my wildest dreams. President Finn was troubled by it…and he dealt with Moss' family accordingly. But in his office with my belly bulging with the last days of my pregnancy approaching, we had a little chat.

_"His words were dangerous, President Finn," I cautioned._

_"It's been taken care of," he folds his hands in front of him._

_"But has it really?"_

_"What do you mean?" He furrows his brows at me._

_I bite my full lip. "I'm not saying there are leaks, President Finn…but you know that some people talk. What if the news of Moss Dorian's outburst gets out? Shouldn't we stomp out the embers before we have a full-blown rebellion? We don't need to let them have any hope that their words can reach us or do anything." My voice is urgent, more urgent than I wanted it to be. "We need to teach them not to hope to overcome us. We need to crush that thought of their minds."_

_He looks at me as if he sees me for the very first time. "And what would you have me do, Mrs. Snow?"_

_"We should have a Quell." He raises an eyebrow at the word. "Quell has always meant to silence, to subdue. We need to quell any chances, any embers of rebellion or else there could be a flame we can't put out. I had this idea a few weeks ago," I lied easily._

_"You're much more ambitious than your late husband, Phoenix. May I call you Phoenix?" He continues on, "Tell me more. I'm very interested."_

_I have been planning this for ten years, this whole idea of a Quell. The root of it all stems in my birth and the death of my father, but let him believe that I just come up with only because of Moss. It's better that way, it's better for him to not see me coming—better that he never sees the hand that will one day linger over his drink a fraction of a second too long. No one wants to see the Reaper._

_"Every twenty-five years, there will be a Quell. It will serve as a reminder to every citizen in the districts that is only by our kindness that they be allowed to live at all. Each Quell will have a twist—every twenty-five years, something will happen that changes the game and makes it that more terrifying."_

_"And what would happen this first year, Phoenix?" He leans forward in interest._

_"We make them choose amongst themselves who will go by popular vote. None shall be innocent of sending a child to slaughter, or at least trying to. And the arena will be spectacular. They will learn why they're incapable of ever overcoming us…"_

He had agreed as I laid out the arena for him in painstaking detail—the interferences, the general lay-out, and even a special touch to show them we are in complete control. I propose there be no winner for this games, but President Finn insists there must be a winner so I'm forced to concede.

Coriolanus lets go of me. After, I burp him. I hold him out in front of me. "One day, Coriolanus, I'll tell you all about your grandfather—the man you share your name with. I'll tell you what happened to him and why." My voice falls to a whisper as I stroke the soft, downy hair. "One day, I'll see to it that you're President of Panem."

And perfectly on cue, Coriolanus Snow laughs while his dark eyes dance with mirth.


	2. District One: Show Me Your Poker Face!

Hey guys! Thanks for the overwhelming amount of reviews on our first chapter! We're terribly glad you like it! We're a little behind on responding to reviews, but we're trying to catch up-but it may take awhile. We get in anywhere from 1 review a day to 30/40 plus favourites and alerts. So yeah!

We're going to start naming all of our chapters now since Belles and I are in charge from the beginning. And, as a final teaser...You're not ready, none of you, for this arena.

And now...for the tributes of District One!

Edit: Next update is on Saturday!

* * *

**Canicus Macaulay of District 1**  
**By** **II-Gen3sis-II**

* * *

"_Right now, I want a word that describes the feeling that you get—a cold, sick feeling, deep down inside—when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it.  
And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be.  
And that you will never again quite be the same person you were."_

—Jennifer Donnely - _A Northern Light_

* * *

Reaping day always came early. Earlier than normal days in some families, like mine for example. My sister, Serafina, and I would get up at the crack of dawn; we wouldn't even have the ability to see the sun through our windows yet. The air would be flowing coolly throughout the house; mother had the habit of keeping the windows open at night to keep everything moving. Apparently she had heard somewhere that cool air was good for the soul, good for the muscles. Honestly, I thought she was rather crazy in the head. Sometimes her ideas were so crazy, I wondered just how my father survived it all. But whatever, I had way more important matters to deal with than her insane new ideas, like getting to the academy to get in some last-minute training before the results of the vote—the means of reaping for the 25th Quarter Quell—came in.

Clad in only a pair of what used to be a dark pair of jeans, now a faded and washed out blue with holes in them, I walked to my dresser and pulled on a black, muscle-tight t-shirt. One less thing to worry about changing into when I got to my destination; I didn't really feel any inherent need to walk out in the darkness in shorts. It was still too cool for that. The last thing I needed was to catch a cold or something worse on the day of the reaping. I _knew _I was going to be voted to go. I had to be the one. I was bored here at home just working at my father's shop. Day in and day out would be the same old routine, the same old things to do. It was becoming even more of a chore than it already was.

"Ready to go?" I heard my sister speak from the doorway.

I turned toward her as she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed with a small smirk on her face. Even for a ten year old she could still pull off an intelligent, confident, if not somewhat cocky look when she wanted to. Sometimes, it would drive our mother crazy, other times it would make our father wonder where she got it from, but she and I both knew that she got it from me. I just hoped she would bring that A-game to her reaping years. While she was certainly capable of keeping up the persona so in front of our family and some of our friends, when it came to those of a more dominant personality type, she didn't have as much luck, if any luck at all.

Bullying between kids certainly wasn't something hidden in the district, and in reality, some thought it was good for the reaping pool, but I didn't think so when it came to my sister. There were more than a few occasions where my sister and I would be brought home to an angry father and mother by a Peacekeeper breaking up one of the fights her bullies caused. What can I say? You mess with my sister, you mess with me. End of story.

"Yeah, let me just grab my shoes."

"Well, hurry up. You're taking forever."

"Hush, squirt. Can't rush the winning vote, you know." I grinned as I pulled on my pair of black boots, stood up, and ruffled my sister's hair as I walked past her and into the hallway.

"Don't call me squirt! I could _so_ kick your behind if I had to!" she huffed angrily as she followed me down the stairs.

"I'm sure you could eventually. But for now," I grabbed an apple from the kitchen, "you'll have to make due with me calling you squirt."

"You're lame," she glowered and puffed out her cheeks.

"That's not what you said last week when I won a spot in the voting pool during the competition," I grinned and stuck the apple in my mouth so I could pull on my black jacket.

"Technicality. Now go kick so dummy backside and come back ready to win the Games this year. You'll definitely be picked and get that change of scenery you've been wanting for a while."

"Yes, this year is definitely my year for sure. See you, squirt!"

"Quit calling me squirt!" was the only thing I heard as the door fell shut behind me as I walked into the early morning air.

Despite being from District One, at the early hours of 4:30am, not many people were up and about. Most that were up were from the families like our own who sent their children to the academy early in the morning to train before classes began. I saw a few of my immediate classmates walking the same way I was, two of which were my best friends—Augustus and Artemis—who just so happened to be fraternal twins. Augustus was pretty much my equal when it came to hand-to-hand combat. By some miracle, I beat him, though barely, when we fought against each other for our rankings. Artemis was Augustus in female form. She was extremely deadly with pretty much anything she put her hands on. However, she had an affinity for double-sided knives. So it wasn't surprising she was in the top five girls the district got to choose from. I'd be shocked if she wasn't picked as our female tribute this year. Granted, I wouldn't want to go against her in the arena—that'd be suicide in the making.

Speaking of which, I thought how our district handled the whole voting thing to be rather fitting. When it was announced that the districts would have to vote for their tributes District One decided to do ours in two stages. Since there were so many of us eligible to be chosen, there had to be a way to bring down the choices to a select few for voting purposes. As such, we went with a competition to find the top five for each gender. They split the competition into age groups; 12 and 13 year olds fought against each other until a single winner was announced. The same thing then went for 14 and 15, 16 and 17, and lastly my age group of 18 year olds. Since my age group was the last eligible age, we had two spots to fight for. Something about keeping things fair since we were the oldest, trust me, I don't get it either. Well, more like I didn't care. It meant I had a double chance of getting one of those spots.

After the competition, we were left with five males to vote for and five females to vote for. Of the five males, there was me, Canicus, at age 18, Trojan at age 18, Kaius at age 17, Orpheus at age 15, and Icarus at age 13. Of the females to vote for, there was Artemis at age 18, Flora at age 18, Admire at age 17, Demitra at age 14, and little Vena at age 12.

It was certainly an interesting pool of candidates to vote for. So many of us had a different set of skills it would have been, no doubt, difficult for the district to choose one from each gender category. So they gave us ten the chance to campaign should we wish to, until the night before Reaping day, a.k.a today.

We were pretty much given free rein to do what we wanted for the campaigning portion. However, they did say that there wasn't to be any money trading. Although, I wouldn't have been surprised if money did pass between people under the table in order to get votes going for a particular person they wanted to win. That's just how our district worked. If they couldn't volunteer they could damn well make sure that the vote was in their favorite's favor.

Picking up my walk, I caught up to the twins and swung an arm around each of them playfully. "So! How are my two favorite twin siblings this morning?"

Augustus smirked and rolled his eyes. "Pretty much the same as when we left you earlier last evening, Canicus. Are you ready for the results today?"

I grinned with a glint in my eye. "Absolutely. But sorry, it's not going to be your year. It's totally going to be mine. I can feel it in my bones."

I heard Artemis snort rather un-lady like. "Are you sure that's not your bones turning brittle, old man?"

"Ouch, why so harsh? Wouldn't you want to have me to go up against instead of your twin?" I asked in mock offense to her statement.

"At least if it was my brother it would be a fair fight, and I wouldn't kill him right away like I would do to you," Artemis shot back smirking at my aghast look.

"Love you too, Artemis. Love you too. I completely feel the love."

"You should," Augustus chimed in, "She would totally kick your ass in the arena, and we all know it."

A pout formed on my lips, "Thanks for the support, guys. Just for that, I hope I don't end up in the arena with you, Art. I'd rather not face the tip of your knife."

"Heh. You'd be feeling way more than just the tip of that knife, Canicus."

I grinned painfully, not really wanting to think about it. While I liked causing others pain when it was allowed, I wasn't too partial to receiving pain. I was by no means a weakling, not by a long-shot, but I wasn't stupid. It was called self-preservation.

"Anyway," I changed the subject quickly, "how long are you guys planning on training this morning?"

"Probably about an hour or so, depending on how many others are there. From the looks of it, the training area shouldn't be too bad," Augustus answered.

"Why would it be? There are only ten of us who have the chance to go into the arena this year. Ten people don't fill the training center," Artemis added immediately afterwards.

"True in point. Guess we'll just have to see for ourselves," I added in as an afterthought and moved forward to walk in front of my two friends.

The rest of the walk was in a comfortable silence and we made it to the academy in good time. When we walked through the double glass doors each of us made sure to sign in at the front, I guess they wanted to make sure they could keep tabs on us all. Quite possibly see how long we were training, at what times we trained, and how long we stayed for. Maybe they used it to help create the odds for this year's Quell with the whole voting thing, but that was neither here nor there. All that really mattered to us was getting fit and honing our skills to a deadly precision. Our district, along with districts two and four, had a reputation to uphold. And if our district wanted to have something showing preliminary odds for their chosen ten then that was their business. All I cared about was getting that spot for the Quell.

Over the course of the voting period I had been asked by a number of people why I wanted to go in, why they should vote me so I could represent them in the arena. Honestly I didn't have a specific reason. I mean I wasn't unhappy per say with where I was at. I wasn't trying to prove myself to anyone or gain anything out of it. All I really wanted was a change of pace. In blunt terms, I was downright bored. When I would say this some would look surprised at my honesty. Apparently others wanted to play the tough card, or the pride for the district card, or the pity card in the case of Admire Blanchard. Apparently she was absolutely dead set on getting the female spot, because if she won she'd have enough money for some operation she said she needed. Now, normally I would be all over that in support considering I do like myself a lovely lady, but that girl had a nasty attitude that really knew how to get under my skin.

"See you morons out on the mats," Artemis waved us off as she made her way into the woman's locker room.

"Your sister is so full of bubbly sweetness in the morning."

"Oh just shut up so we can get changed and meet her out there. I'd rather not face the wrath of her knives today of all days."

Despite that, Augustus and I grinned at each other as we each went to our respective lockers. It truly was disappointing to me that Augustus couldn't have been my direct rival for the tribute spot. It was even more annoying that Trojan had gotten the other spot in our top five. Trojan and I…had never gotten along. My parents seem to think it's just the testosterone talking when he and I got heated at each other for something. But on the other hand I wasn't so sure. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the fact that he hung out with that infuriating, full of herself, Admire. Or maybe it was something else entirely, no matter, he wouldn't be the winner of the voting. Nope, wouldn't happen.

"Come on Mr. Daydreamer before my sister makes you her target practice!"

I grunted and quickly pulled on my shorts and shoes, following Augustus out into the training area. The time on the clock showed 5:00am. Off to the northwestern side of the area Artemis had taken residence in the knives and swords section. Within her hands were three throwing knives each, and with each flick of her wrist one of those knives imbedded itself within a training dummy's neck. Her brother and I exchanged a significant look, neither of us wanted to face her unless absolutely necessary this morning. Especially since she had definitely been giving off the aura of 'don't-piss-me-off' while we walked here.

"Knives or hand to hand combat?" Augustus asked stopping close to Artemis, enough to warn her that we were there, but far enough away so we could fight each other.

"Definitely knives, my wrists are aching for a good warm up," I answered almost immediately and went over to grab a pair of medium length daggers.

Knives were my babies. I loved them dearly. When we were allowed to pick a concentration during training, I knew that knives would be best suited for me. When my father needed my help in the shop I was most useful in the carving process. I'd watch what my dad did every day since I was three, learning his techniques, and honing them towards my own craft. By the time I was ten my detail work had gained some talk in the district. I could manipulate pretty much any type of knife to do what I wanted it to do, even if it seemed impossible. So when I was allowed to take on a specialty, I knew I had to take my knife skills to the next level. From then on, knife wielding became second nature to me, an extension of my body.

I twisted each dagger in my hands, feeling the familiar weight on my palms. Their silver edges gleaming from the artificial light above me, I could almost see the sharp edge cutting into invisible flesh. I shivered in anticipation as a rush of adrenaline began to pump through my veins. If this is what I was feeling now in training, I craved to feel what it was like in the arena too. It was so addicting. Augustus had taken residence a few feet away from me, two daggers in his hands as well.

"Come at me, bro!" he called out getting into a defensive stance.

He didn't have to tell me twice. I was right in front of him within a second or two, the clashing ring of metal against metal echoed in the room. When Augustus tried to move to the left and take a swipe at my neck I quickly ducked and blocked with my right arm. We held that for a moment, gauging our strength as if we were having an arm fight. A flick of his wrist and his arm was gone, only to have his right knee come up to try and knock me in the nose. I grunted from the impact as both of my arms went down to stop it, my left leg kicking out to trip him causing him to crash to the floor.

I stepped back two paces and took my own defensive stance, smirking, "Come now, I know you can do better than this."

Augustus grinned at me and flipped upwards, charging at me. The impact of steel against steel once more sent me scooting backwards against the mats. We were deadlocked. I took a chance, quickly ducked under his arms, and slammed my body into his torso. The impact caused us to fall to the floor, the knives falling away from us. So much for knife work, this was turning into a full out wrestling match. Augustus grabbed a hold of the back of my neck and pulled, using his other arm to come up and push on my jaw as if he were going to snap my neck. I felt my back bow and I cringed. Shit, not good. A quick punch to his ribs loosened his hold, but I felt him try to wrap his legs around my upper body to stop me in retaliation. I moved my body upwards, dragging Augustus up with me in the process, and flipped him over so he landed on his stomach.

However, I didn't let go of his right arm. Instead, when he tried to get to his knees to retaliate, I pushed upwards in the wrong direction, making him growl in pain.

"Damn it, Canicus, you'll break my arm if you go any further," he panted trying to catch his breath.

I too was out of breath from our short match, a few beads of sweat gliding down my temple, "Well, you left yourself open. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Watch your back and not let go of your weaponry," the silky voice of Artemis came from right behind me.

Before I even had time to process that she was right behind me, she had one of my daggers held lightly against my neck. Damn, she was good. Neither of us had heard her approach. I'd have to note that for later to work on when I was in training for the arena at the Capitol.

"If we were actually in the arena I wouldn't hesitate to end your life if I found you like this," she added ever so lightly dragging the knife across my neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to get my attention.

"I'll be sure to remember that Art," I answered her letting Augustus' arm go.

Augustus rolled his arm in its socket, trying to get the feeling back in it. Artemis lowered the dagger from my neck; walking over to her brother and helping him stand. They shared a look that I noticed pretty quickly. It was one that I knew and one that I didn't really want to be a part of. They were planning something to get back at me for beating Augustus. That much I knew, and it was going to hurt like a bitch if I let them get away with it.

"Guys," I warned picking up the other dagger that was still on the mat.

"Yes, Canicus?" Augustus answered back completely innocent sounding.

"If you're thinking of doing what I'm pretty sure you're thinking of doing I'd rather not have you knock me out before 10am."

The twins grinned at the same time, "Now why would we do that?"

Damn, it's the creepy twin thing again. They did it every time before they ganged up on me during free training hours. And every time they did so, I'd fail miserably at beating them. When Artemis and Augustus got together as a team, they were nearly unbeatable. Maybe it was the fact that they were twins, but when one would come and attack the other would follow up in synchronization. When one would feint to one side the other would back them up and come up the other side to strike. When watching it from the sidelines it was quite the sight to behold. However, when in the middle of it and you being their target, it was more of an 'oh shit I'm screwed' feeling.

"You might want another one of those," Augustus teased throwing him one of the daggers he was still holding, leaving him and his sister with one dagger each.

I caught it easily and gave Augustus a look, "You guys suck."

"Certainly, but once again, watch your back," Artemis spoke really close from behind.

I barely had enough time to dodge and block her dagger. Quickly bringing up my leg and kicking her back in the stomach, I whirled around to be knocked back myself from her brother. We traded blow for blow, each one harder than the last. Since I was off balance when he followed up Artemis' attack I was pushed back as well. A swipe from Artemis' leg brought me to the ground with a grunt; that hurt like a bitch. Augustus followed suit, moving to pin me, and more importantly, my arms, down on the ground. I twisted my body upwards and to the left flank, the twins moving forward with me. Our daggers clashed again, Artemis to my left and Augustus to my right, we deadlocked.

"I am so glad I'll never have to face both of you in a more serious setting," I breathed and pushed against their daggers.

"What can we say, we know each other very well," they both said at the same time before jumping to the sides.

With the release of their weight I stumbled forwards a few steps, not exactly expecting them to move like that. I quickly felt pain in my right arm. Looking down, I saw that Augustus has cut not only the bandage I had there, but also broke the skin. As the bandage fell off onto the mat and the burn marks showed up in broad daylight, a thin trail of blood seeped from the open wound. I almost stood there for a moment fascinated by the sight of the red, sticky liquid.

"Distractions," Artemis sang and I snapped my head up as went at me again, Augustus fading out somewhere in my blind spot.

The impact of Artemis' body against my own threw me off again and I slammed into the wall behind me. This was bad, I never realized that we had gotten so close and now I was cornered. Augustus showed up to my immediate right, moving to slam his fist where my stomach was. I twisted my body to the left, getting up off the wall and watched his fist slam into it instead.

"Fuck! That hurt!" he yowled and grabbed his wrist, the dagger falling from his grasp as he did so, his knuckles red and starting to flow blood.

One twin down, one twin to go. Now the better question, where the hell was she?

"Peek-a-boo—"

I felt her twist my arm back and pull hard. She was doing the exact same thing I did to her brother not minutes before. I threw one of my daggers at her head, just barely missing her temple as it went flying into the opposite wall, nearly hitting another tribute who was training as well. I barely heard their angry "Watch it!" before I was forced to the ground on my knees by both twins, one of my arms in each of their grasps.

"We win," they announced grinning.

"No shit," I retorted wincing at the placement they put me in.

"You did better though this time," Augustus said after a moment and released my arm at the same time his sister did.

"We didn't beat you as quickly, you're improving," Artemis added going over to the daggers, picking them up, and putting them away.

"Improvement is key to survival," I answered stretching my arms and getting some of the lost feeling back.

"Indeed. I think it's time we head out and get cleaned up though. The reaping is almost upon us," Augustus spoke in a mock ominous tone which caused Artemis and I to laugh at him.

"You're a moron brother."

"Yes, but alas, I'm YOUR moronic older brother."

"Only by five minutes!"

"It's still five minutes!"

"Oi! Come on you two! Quit bickering and let's get out of here!"

"You're not our mother!"

"Thank god for that. I'd be concerned if I was."

The walk back to our homes consisted mostly of the twins arguing about who was older and who had more skill. I just stayed out of it. Getting in-between one of the twins' fights was just as bad as being in the same training fight as them. It was deadly and you'd lose very fast. We passed their home first and we said our goodbyes and good lucks, once again I was alone in the later portion of the morning. The sun was peaking over one of the buildings, casting the roads in a soft golden hue. The warmth was rather welcoming. Today was going to be a good day to hold a reaping. Coming to the front steps, I realized I had gotten home a little before 7am. My father was already gone and at work, making the finalized exports for his portion of the district taxes. My sister was sitting in the living room reading a book and my mother was at the kitchen table writing furiously on some pieces of paper.

"When you're done showering and getting cleaned up I need you to take these down to the Justice Building," my mother called out to me.

"Export quota?" I asked as I hung up my jacket.

"Indeed."

I nodded and headed upstairs to the restroom to take my shower. However, before I stepped into the bathroom, I took a moment to stare at my right arm where Augustus had slashed me. The blood was caked on my skin completely dry. Now there was just an angry redline mixed in with the burn marks. I grimaced while remembering how I got those burns. I was 16 and working in the back with my father that day. He needed help melting down some metal. So while he was holding the white hot metal, I was the one who pounded it into the correct shape with a hammer. Unfortunately, at one point I had gotten distracted for some reason, I don't remember now what it was, but when I turned to face my father again, my right arm accidently touched the metal bar he had been holding to the flame. Suffice to say, the burns took weeks to heal and the scarring was a mess.

The anger my father showed me after that was rather unnerving. Neither my sister nor I had ever seen him that angry before. When I look back on it now I don't think he was worried about my well being. I think he was more concerned about what other people would say when they saw my arm. He always did have an OCD nature about other people's opinion about him and his family. Mother would say it stemmed from his perfectionist desire regarding his work. My father threw everything he had into his craft, sometimes staying at the shop all night just to finish the idea that came up in his head. He would explain to us whenever we asked why he'd stay for so long that if he didn't finish his idea when he had it, he'd lose the idea completely and it wouldn't come out right. So, therefore, he would have to start all over again and waste valuable resources.

So, when I injured myself by accident, we seem to think his perfectionist and OCDness got the better of him. He, at first, would force me to keep the whole injury covered even after it had been officially declared fully healed. He couldn't stand the sight of it; it reminded him that I wasn't perfect like his craft. In time, I grew to hate the scars myself and my father didn't have to force me anymore. Wearing the bandage became second nature. Going around without it seemed like the wrong thing to do. Only Augustus and Artemis had ever fully seen the extent of the burns, and when my mother found out they had, made sure to warn me that my father would be really pissed if he ever found out.

Suffice to say, I never wanted to see my father go off the deep end because of someone seeing my burns.

I had just finished re-wrapping my arm in a fresh bandage after my shower when my sister knocked on the wood of the bathroom door, "Here's the quota paperwork. She says to go straight to the reaping grounds once you're done."

"Thanks, sis."

I took the papers from her and turned off the lights. When I made it down downstairs my mother gave me a once over to make sure I was up to her standard since we were going to be on camera. Luckily for me she approved of my dark black slacks, shoes, and white, short sleeve dress shirt. However she didn't like the top button being undone. With a roll of my eyes when she was done fussing I went out of the house again, unbuttoning the top button again. There were a lot more people out and about right now. Most were getting ready to be on camera like myself. Unfortunately for them, they wouldn't have all the attention on them. While all the kids still had to sign in, only the ten of us would actually be eligible to be reaped.

I looked forward and ahead to see a familiar female walking my way. A cocky swing was in each step she took. Even from here, I could see that she recognized who I was and adorned a smirk on her face as she winked at me. Great, just what I needed this morning, a confrontation with Admire Blanchard. And on top of it all, she was messing around with the Trojan kid. I didn't trust him. He was rumored to be in some…interesting dealings and as much as I didn't like Admire, I liked Trojan even less.

"You did vote for me right?" she asked almost immediately.

I smirked at her, cocky bitch, "Now remind me why I would vote for the upper-class snob who beat all the other girls in the competition last month?"

I saw her eyes narrow as she studied me like I studied her back; two could play at this game.

"Because you love me like everyone else and actually want competition in these Games instead of a weakling that dies in the bloodbath like Skye Azurite. I'll take it that's a yes, you did vote for me. Excellent."

I snorted; unlikely that I voted for her. But alas, let her think whatever the hell she wanted. Nothing off my back if she wanted to think that I would actually vote for her. I didn't want to give her anything else to brag about with that overly large ego of hers.

"See you at the Reapings—Oh, and take that bandage off your arm. It looks like it's _crawling_ with germs."

I glared at her; the bandage was fresh, thank you very kindly. I ran a hand through my hair almost uncomfortably. I hated it when comments were made about my arm. It was none of their damn business.

"It's badass," was the only retort I could come up with which sounded stupid the minute I said it.

"Sure," she shot back with what seemed a roll of her eyes; I saw her hands going for my arm soon after, "Why not take it off Canicus? Show the world how tough you are. You could—"

I gripped her wrist tightly before she could get any closer with a dark glare of my own I changed the topic quickly, "I've heard you've been fooling around with that Trojan Orlov kid."

She snorted, rather undignified of a lady, "Kid. Trojan's only two months younger then you and don't be jealous. It's not becoming on a man."

It was laughable; her thinking I was jealous. I wasn't. I just didn't like either of them but the last thing anyone needed was trouble with the peacekeepers. Whatever, her deal.

Instead I opted to stare darkly at her, trying to get some sort of information from her, "What game are you playing?"

"I don't know Canicus. What game am I playing?" she asked not giving anything away.

"Poker," I said after a moment and grinned.

"Very good," she answered and immediately got a little bit too close for comfort in my face, "You know Canicus, we really should organize another games night when I'm Victor and you've taken over your Father's shop."

"Let's not fool around Mira-" I quickly began to add in before I was cut off by her sharp glare and cold words.

"_Admire_. My name is Admire."

"Fine, Admire," I smirked at her darkly and finished what I was going to say, "Let's not fool around. We both know I'm going to get reaped this year and win."

A small gust of wind picked up and I watched her fool around with her hair for a moment, "Of course. Keep dreaming Canicus, or better yet dream of _me._ Bye now. See you at the Reaping."

And with that she strode off before I could answer again, cocky and full of herself like always.

"Bitch…" I mumbled and quickly walked into the justice building to drop off the quota papers I had almost forgotten about.

When I got to the reaping square shortly after coming out of the Justice Building, it was already busy with a lot of people. Both the girls and guys of reaping age were lined up to sign in. I got into one of the lines and waited my turn. Within a minute I was put into a headlock by a familiar twin of mine, his laughter very prominent in the crowd.

"See you made it here on time," he grinned as I pushed him off me and grinned back at him.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world you know. Where's your sister?"

"Already here in the 18 year old section. She wanted to come separately since she's all special and in the top ten," Augustus pouted.

I snickered, "sucks to be you. And it's too bad you didn't get to prove yourself since this is our last reaping."

"Don't remind me. I'm going to be so bored now."

"Arm," came the order from the peacekeeper sitting at the desk.

I didn't even wince when he pressed the needle into my finger and signed me in with my own blood. Augustus was given the same order and we quickly made our way to our section of the boy's side. Nearby I could see the other top ten tributes in their age groups. Each had either a smile, smirk, or nothing in the case of Artemis, adorned on their face. She was such a hardass. But alas, I loved her like a sister much like I love Augustus like a brother. This reaping was going to be rather interesting if Artemis got chosen. I already knew I was going to be going but a part of me didn't want face her in the arena. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

Admire's mother soon came onto the stage looking rather nervous for the mayor's wife. Now that wasn't something we got to see every day and it made me wonder for a second what she was so nervous about. The nervousness was even more present when she began speaking about the Treaty of Treason and as we watched the yearly video. Each time it brought me closer and closer to falling asleep out of sheer boredom. I looked over at Augustus and he had on a mock sleeping look, silently pretending to snore away. Snickering I shook my head and turned back to the stage, watching as Admire's mother stepped away and our Escort Creon stepped up to speak. He wasn't terrible, just a bit annoying. I couldn't say too much though as I hadn't had to deal with him on a real normal basis. He still wore that gaudy jewelry and outfits and I wondered how the hell these Capitol people came up with such fashions. They stuck out like sore thumbs.

"Welcome to the Reapings for the 25th Hunger Games - the very first Quarter Quell!" he began in that stupid accent of his, "As you know your District has been voting for the last few weeks and the girl tribute is…"

He messed around with the envelope for a moment before pulling out a card. Was it Artemis? I hoped so. I'd rather face her than anyone else on the girls side.

"Admire Blanchard!"

Well fuck, that just put a damper on my day. I watched as Admire squealed and strode forward. A number of people seemed to be happy for her which was fine. I wasn't one of them and neither was Augustus. In fact, he looked rather disappointed at being unable to root for his sister in the games. Taking a look over at Artemis she looked like she wanted to kill the girl on stage and I didn't blame her. Artemis deserved to go so much more than Admire.

"And now it's time to find out who our handsome male tribute is for this year," Creon pulled out another card from within the envelope.

Me, it had to be me. I worked so damn hard to get this far it'd be completely wrong for me not to go. I stared hard as Creon cleared his throat before reading off the name. I felt my jaw clench and my muscles tighten in anticipation. This was it. I would either get to go somewhere else with new things to do with my life, or be stuck here forever more with no reaping to look forward to any longer. This was my last chance.

"Canicus Macaulay!"

The smirk on my face was probably so big I had to have looked like I was crazy. But I didn't care. I was leaving this place for something new. It was like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Augustus slapped my shoulder and said congratulations as the guys my age moved aside so I could climb the stairs. My eyes narrowed in silent glee at the dark look Admire was giving me. Miss prissy cat didn't seem to be very happy and that give me a sick sense of happiness. I enjoyed her discomfort.

"And here you have it! Your tributes for District One! May the odds be ever in your favor!" Creon announced and took each of us by the shoulder to lead us inside the building I had been in not that long ago.

"And let the games begin," I muttered under my breath with a grin.

* * *

**Admire Blanchard of District 1**

**By Crazy-ForeverxXx**

* * *

_"You say that I'm kinda difficult  
__But it's always someone else's fault  
__Got you wrapped around my finger babe  
__You can count on me to misbehave."_

—Marina and the Diamonds - _Primadonna Girl_

* * *

_I take a sip of champagne from the glass flute by my side as the people around us lean forward to watch, taffeta skirts ruffling and earrings glinting in the chandelier light. Light piano music chimes around the room and waiters weave around groups with trays held aloft, the silver sparkling and reflecting faces that blur namelessly. Several of the men beside me whisper in my ears, dulcet tones making my skin tingle with their closeness, minty breath exhaled on my hair as they sit back to watch with eager plain in their beady eyes. They want to see my downfall, see me beaten and humiliated; an act never occurring after I learnt every single rule of the game. I flick the cards between my fingers with an expert hand, silver bracelets slithering down my skinny wrist._

_The air is infused with perfume so sweet it stings my nose and my head feels heady, lips swollen as I giggle tipsily and flutter my eyelashes at the Doctor._

"_Surely you know how to play Doctor?" I ask, leaning forward across the mahogany table polished to a gleaming shine. My corset digs into my stomach uncomfortably and I shift in my seat, placing the cards on the table and rearranging my draping skirts. I slap away a hand that drifts closer and the man grumbles. Doctor Carlos idly polishes his glasses with a folded handkerchief before picking up the cards and shuffling carefully, calculating. Eyes narrowed, I wait for him to start._

"_Admire you're playing my game. You silly child." He chides with a foolish grin._

_He smiles sickenly at me and I frown. " What?"_

_The atmosphere immediately turns dark. The candles around the room are extinguished in a gust of wind, casting dark shadows around the large ballroom. Smoke drifts hazily around but the people around us watch on obliviously._

_I lunge across the table and snatch the cards from his hands, I don't want him to play anymore-_

"_Turn them over." He coos and when I don't he gently takes them from me and starts turning them over, one by one. I stare at the words they spell bewildered and shake my head._

"_I don't have a stomach ulcer."_

"_Oh don't deny it my dear. It's going to kill you eventually." His whisper haunts me, echoes in my ear as shivers crawl up my back._

_Faces turn menacing, half blanked by thick darkness. Hands once firm on my shoulder turn into talons holding me in place. Wicked laughter replaces the merry giggles I once knew and I whip around to see nothing but shadows. The only sound is the rattling of my breath in my windpipe as my stomach burns agonizingly bringing tears to my eyes._

_I look at my once smooth abdomen horrified, my dress ripped across the middle with feral animal claws. The area is moldy, rotting, blood seeping through the huge hole in my body._

_My skin is a mottled grey and lumps fall off into my hand and get stuck under my fingernails as I try to hold myself together. I see pink entrails peeking out of the wound and gag._

"_You said you would book me an operation!" I scream at Doctor Carlos who morphs into Father in front of my eyes. I skitter backwards in shock._

"_I lied." He shrugs with a wolfish grin, teeth bared._

_The words twist deep in my gut and I shriek with anger and pain as the skin I'm clutching festers with a rancid smell. Crimson blood drips to the floor, broken bones splintering with cracks that ricochet around my brain, echoing around the room. My abdomen crumbles to ash before pouring through my trembling fingers that are just bones, and I'm just dust on the wind…_

I wake up with a jolt, limbs locked tight and chest burning.

It wasn't real; just a dream.

Just a dream.

I find myself checking my stomach for confirmation anyway as I gasp for air, musty sweat trickling down my forehead.

My flimsy lace curtains shine golden sunlight into my room, painting the boy beside me in a golden glow. I wipe my forehead with an arm and peek over the top of my duvet.

Feathers from last night still drape my four-poster bed and floor and there's an empty wine bottle on my bedside with the last dregs dripping onto my pillows. After my heartbeat has returned to it's normal rhythm I lean forward and without disturbing the sheets trace one slim finger down the boy's jaw line. He shivers, opening bleary eyes.

"Morning." I coo, smiling at him as he yawns, stretching.

"How much money did you steal from me?" He asks, running a hand through his hair and I laugh merrily, gaze flickering to the pile of glittering coins on my chaise lounge chair.

One of the main reasons I always orchestrate poker nights is because inevitably I and some boy have lots of fun, fun meaning they lose lots of money and I have a fabulous night in my bedchamber.

"Oh Trojan." I chide. "You never learn not to bet against me, do you?"

I giggle as he yanks me across the bed to him, my hair tumbling down my back in light ash blonde waves.

He kisses me passionately, fingers knitting into my hair to pull me closer. His lips are sweet and still taste of the champagne we had last night. His stubble scratches my cheeks as I squirm to break free. His icy blue eyes turn dark with annoyance as I sit up and throw my silk duvet back, getting up and gliding barefoot across my thick carpeted floor.

"Let me pamper myself. You should be going home you dirty stop-out." I dimple at him. "And it's Reaping day I need to look more beautiful then usual."

I disappear into my bathroom and turn on the silver taps of my bath, adding salts, oils and lavender bubble bath before leaning against the golden door frame. Trojan looks at me with longing in his gaze.

"I presume you know your way out?" I arch an eyebrow at his staring.

"Mmm."

"Great. Goodbye then." I smile sweetly and shut the door.

I laugh when I hear his annoyed groan and my ornate bedroom door slamming a few minutes later.

Good; if Mother caught him she would not be pleased. She hates my so called 'un-lady like' pastimes. Of all the things we argue about this inevitably crops up in every attempted civil conversation we have.

I swish the hot bubbles around with my fingers as I perch on the side of the bath tub, humming to myself. I wonder if Father, who is currently in the Capitol, has managed to book my appointment yet. My eyes narrow even at the thought. Father has never been one to stand up when people confront him and if any of those high and mighty Capitol citizens try to tell him to wait for my surgery, he will gladly wait until they say so.

No thought about how dire the situation of his ill offspring is of course, so I have to take matters into my own hands as usual, the only ones I can trust.

Today I'm going to be voted into the 25th Hunger Games.

I stride to the Justice Building, ignoring the Peacekeepers getting all the equipment ready for the Reaping. I slink past the white uniforms easily, Head Peacekeeper Thor roaring out orders for the lighting and such. I push open the heavy marble doors and have just started to walk in when I'm stopped.

"Hey lady you can't be in here." One puts a restraining hand on my arm and I smile patronizingly. Oh, he has _no_ idea.

"My Father is the Mayor. I have every right to be here." I brush past him unconcerned, pointing to the huge glossy poster of myself plastered on the front desk.

I look at it with a fond smile, giving it a caress as I go past.

Being the Mayor's daughter I've grown up with a plethora of skills on how to run successful campaigns; needless to say I'm confident about today and if I don't get in my supposed voters are going to have _a lot _to answer to…

I walk up the marble staircase, turning and twisting through a maze of chandelier lit corridors. After years of following my Father to work I know every square inch of the place. My favourite room by far in the building is the census rooms where every citizen in 1 has a file. Just lying there in file cabinets, the paper crisp and filled with juicy secrets. Even Father doesn't know I picked the lock and read them, but he'd understand you have to do what you can to change the opinion of people who hate you.

I find Mother in Father's office on the third floor debating which colour wallpaper to decorate with. It smells heavily of Father's aftershave and I inhale deeply with a sense of nostalgia. I haven't been in here for a while.

I'm reminded of his absence and my nostalgia turns to bitterness.

The two men against the wall shuffle with the rolls awkwardly, almost spilling the different coloured sheets and materials out of their arms. My baby brother Prince shuffles around the floor playing with a emerald and gurgling happily. His actions bring a rare affectionate smile on my face, however fleetingly quick.

"No, no, try the other." Mother fusses, waving her hand in the air. "Yes. Yes that one is _perfect. _What do you think Admire?"

"About the wallpaper?" I check as I sink down into Father's leather chair.

"It's expensive but worth it don't you think?" She strokes the wall fondly and I stare at her in disgust. Honestly her only daughter is practically on the brink of death and she thinks wallpaper is more important!

"No. I hate it. You could be using the money for my operation - but you wouldn't think of that would you?" I say, voice tinged with venom.

"Don't start Admire." My Mother sighs sharply, dismissing the two lower-class men holding the scrolls.

"Well it's true isn't it?" I sneer, getting off Father's chair. My stomach twinges and I scowl, rubbing my blouse as if that's the problem.

"And this isn't even your office Mom it's Father's." I prowl around my Father's desk to try and find the votes. Sure they were 'classified' but Father's Mayor, he must have a note somewhere saying something. I poke around for a while; fiddling with leaflets about dangerous Morphling addicts and how Mockingjays can hear your every word. Funny I've never seen them in this District; it must just be because we all love the Capitol.

"I thought you'd be training today."

"It's Reaping Day, I need to be prepared to impress not dripping with sweat." I say in disgust, lip curled. Prince toddles over and I pat his curls absently. "Whoever else ends up Reaped will not be telling everyone about my life-threatening disease, I'll make sure of that."

"Why?"

"Honestly Mother have you no idea how the Hunger Games work? I'll have something brutal done to me. I certainly don't want others hunting me down thinking I'm weak."

"Admire your ulcer isn't that dangerous-"

I stare at her in disbelief; dropping the file I'd opened and scattering papers on the woollen gold carpet. Did she not hear what she was saying? What _I _was saying?

"_You _were not at the Doctors that day." I snap, stabbing a finger in her direction as I get on the floor and pick up the papers.

"Don't take that tone of voice with me young lady. Your attitude needs to change Admire." My Mother says coldly and I can recite our following argument almost off by heart the amounts of time we have had it. Countless dinners ruined, day outs abandoned.

"Of course Mommy." I smile sarcastically and she rubs her wrinkled forehead with frustration, eyes glowing with annoyance. Like I would change for her; I'm perfectly happy the way I am.

"You know your Father is in the Capitol; he'll be sorting it out for you."

"Yeah that's what you said last time remember?" I laugh humourlessly and she blusters under her breath. I flick through the papers eagle-eyed. Ooh what does that say? '**The 25****th**** Hunger Games, the 1****st**** Annual Quarter Quell-**

Mother snatches the papers from my hands.

"I was reading that!" I protest angrily, mouth open. What if it said something _important?_

"That's classified information Admire, and don't give me that look. Last time we didn't have it confirmed you had an ulcer."

"No but I knew I had it and you didn't listen to me _as usual_." I hiss the last words as I slam the drawers in Father's desk shut, the contents rattling.

"Don't you dare say that Admire!" My Mother's pinched face turns scarlet with poorly concealed rage and she doesn't try to stop me as I sweep past her, my dress swirling around my ankles in a ruffle of spring green taffeta.

"Why? It's true! You don't care about me at all!" I stamp my foot furiously; does she not understand what is happening?

My Mother glowers and curses. "How dare you say that?"

"You know it's true."

I slam the door shut behind me with a bang.

I storm back through the Justice Building with my hands curled into fists, catching my reflection in a glass cabinet displaying a little promotional sticker for Tesserae. It's laughable; barely anyone in 1 takes out tesserae. We're not exactly starving in rags.

I peer closer at myself. For once my colourless cheeks are tinged with pink, my eyes narrowed and glowing a storm cloud of grey. My stomach aches and I remind myself that today is the Reaping and I will no longer have to endure the fights after today. No more irritating family.

I head back home down the cobbled streets, waving absently at some girls and winking at Canicus Macaulay when I see the tall boy walking my way. I step in front of him and he steps to the side. I do the same. I and the son of my favourite jewellers rarely talk but when we do, oh the _fun_ we have…

"You did vote for me right?" I ask and he smirks in welcome, that irritating smile that makes me want to destroy his smug face to get rid of it. I would have no qualms killing him when I saw fit, rather like a lot of the boys from District 1. Immature is too kind a word for the idiots, few excepted.

"Now remind me why would I vote for the upper class snob who beat all the other girls in the competition last month?" He drawls, those sharp green eyes examining every inch of me. I arch my back slightly in retaliation.

"Because you love me like everyone else and actually want competition in these Games instead of a weakling that dies in the bloodbath like Skye Azurite. I'll take it that's a yes, you did vote for me. Excellent." I smile pleasantly. "See you at the Reapings - Oh and take that bandage off your arm it looks like it's _crawling _with germs."

"It's badass." He growls, glaring at me.

"Sure." I say patronizingly, rolling my eyes. He never takes that bandage off, I've seen him in the shop with it on. Tattered and nearly fallen apart, a grimy grey with frayed black edges. Very unhygienic.

"Why not take it off Canicus? Show the world how tough you are." I smirk playfully, swishing my skirts back and forth before reaching up to take off the tatty thing. "You could-" He grabs my arm firmly, face darkening as I stagger slightly.

I sniff, pulling my arm away while fixing him with a dirty glare.

"I've heard you've been fooling around with that Trojan Orlov kid."

"Kid." I snort. "Trojan's only two months younger then you and don't be jealous. It's not becoming on a man."

He quirks an eyebrow. "What game are you playing?"

"I don't know Canicus. What game am I playing?" I ask with an artless expression, eyes wide and guileless. I'm far too smart to let him know any tiny detail about any number of games I play.

"Poker." He grins, his emerald eyes glowing. I take it he heard about last night.

"Very good." I breathe, feeling my lips curve into a smile as I lean close to him. "You know Canicus we really should organize another games night when I'm Victor and you've taken over your Father's shop."

The last one I had with him could very well be considered dismal and boring, he was so tense the whole time. Some hard liquor and a bit of attention from a girl like me and he'll be a much nicer and happier person. Maybe he'll have the courage to take his bandage off. See, despite what others think I'm a nice person. I invite people to my parties and let them be my friends if I think they're worthy, and Canicus is very fun to play with.

"Let's not fool around Mira-"

"_Admire_." I stress sharply. "My name is Admire."

He knows I hate it when he calls me that.

"Fine Admire. Let's not fool around. We both know I'm going to win this years Hunger Games."

A gust of wind ruffles my hair as I snicker under my breath, patting my hair back in place. So annoying the cockiness he has, but he lacks the drive to really commit like myself. I don't mind murdering others if I get to live myself whereas Canicus, well he lacks even the courage to get rid of the bandage covering his scars. Doesn't he understand if people see his scars they'll think him even tougher?

"Of course. Keep dreaming Canicus or better yet dream of _me._ Bye now." I breathe, tilting my head sideways and looking up at him from under my eyelashes with a cat-like smirk. "See you at the Reaping."

And I walk away before he can come back with a cocky resort.

I come back home rather late and mutter angrily as I dash upstairs.

"Admire you need some breakfast!" I hear our housekeeper Garnet call after me.

"No time I'll eat on the train!" I call back. I'm not particularly hungry anyway.

"Remember to take your pills!"

"Of course." I grumble and take a sip of water from the glass decanter on my dresser.

I shake out the multicoloured pills into my hand from the bottle. Such deceiving colours; sunshine yellow, spring green, sky blue.

I half-heartedly put the first pill in my throat, hating the cloying sensation as I swallow thickly, trying not to trigger my gag reflex.

I remind myself of the fact that after today I shall never need to take them again.

It brings a smile to myself as I head over to stand in front of my wardrobe in contemplation. I need to stand out from the others. Look… less sultry, like I have no big ingenious plan to seduce the other tributes or become leader of the Careers. Just a simple, sweet naïve girl in her proper little uniform. No pretty dress for her; because all of them are far too plain compared to Capitol standards. There I can stand out and show off my looks even more. For now I need to show I'm in the Games and I mean business.

I pull my white tights on, shimmy into a pleated black skirt. Then I put on my white blouse and pin a silver brooch just where the collar buttons before adding my cashmere grey jumper. I stroke it lovingly as I look in my jewellery box.

Pearl earrings and a matching pearl necklace around my neck; I know how to appeal to an audience. I pause for a moment to consider make-up and when I see the sickly hue to my cheeks immediately add a dab of blusher, adding pale pink lipstick and a swirl of grey on my eyelids to enhance my eyes. I agonizingly choose just one of my rings to wear. A big ruby that glitters as it catches the light.

I tie my hair up into an elaborate twist and give an approving nod at the mirror before I leave my bedroom in a mist of vanilla perfume.

"Are you coming to the reaping Garnet?" I call from the hallway as I lace up my shoes. Little patent black brogues. Lovely.

"I'll be there." Our housekeeper replies from the general direction of the kitchen. "I might be a bit late."

"Don't get arrested, Mother will be angry!" I shout before slamming the door behind me.

The golden sun warms my face and I sigh happily, basking in the heat momentarily before walking down the gravel drive and through Mother's rose garden to the gate, where I bend down and pick a light pink rose for my hair. Heaven forbid I pick white ones; Mother's favourites.

They make me look washed out anyway.

The reaping square is bustling with activity, hopeful girls that won't win chattering eagerly to one another. The sun is burning with full force now and I smirk at everyone fanning themselves, staring as Coretta Belsinger's knees buckle in a swoon. Doesn't she know black absorbs heat? Am I the only sensible, smart and beautiful person in District 1?

"Hey handsome." I say as I meet a clean-shaven Trojan in line to get signed in.

"Hey." By the look on his face he clearly remembers this morning.

"I'm sorry about this morning." I lie. "I just wanted to look good. And don't I look marvellous?" I step back and hold my arms out for him to see properly.

"You look stunning."

"I know." I flash a grin at him, all pearly white teeth and he chuckles.

"I won't bother to wish you good luck."

He moves forward to get his finger pricked before myself. I wince automatically at the stab of the needle but get over it quickly, putting my finger in my mouth and sucking. I notice a few boys looking and eye them teasingly before going over to the 17 year old section.

"Hi Admire!" Carnelian Bouldevair gushes as I approach.

"Did you vote for me?" I ask and she nods.

"Of _course _I did." She looks at me with big brown adoring eyes, straggly strawberry blonde hair tied into a neat bun.

"Hello Carnelian how are you?" I ask, not really interested in the answer. She chatters on before someone else claims her attention, but it's not long before someone else is attempting to chat with me.

"Admire Blanchard."

I slowly turn around. "Artemis Lazuli."

She smirks, dark eyes shining with an evil glint. "Ready to lose?"

I laugh mockingly and the girls around us glance at each other, shuffling with equal parts nerves and excitement.

"Oh Artemis you do make me laugh… how's your brother?"

Her face darkens unattractively. "Stay away from him." She spits.

"Oh don't worry, I'll be in the Hunger Games." I smile patronizingly and walk past her. Our shoulders clash and I shove her away. She snarls before a white arm smacks down in the middle of us.

"Hey." A Peacekeeper cautions and I grin sweetly at him.

"Don't get angry Gem; it was just a misunderstanding. Escort me to my place?" I hold out an arm and throw a smirk over my shoulder as he leads me to the roped off area for the seventeen year olds.

"I voted for you Miss Blanchard." Gem says gruffly, whispering in my ear.

"I know you did Gem." I smile lovingly. "Because you know what would have happened if you didn't."

He laughs nervously, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "You- you didn't tell anyone then?"

"Your secret's safe with me." I promise, nodding comfortingly. "Nobody needs to know you got Marcie pregnant-"

"Shhsh!" He says hastily and I giggle, a hand over my mouth.

"Sorry Gem. I forgot you'd lose your job and get arrested." I'm not sorry at all, in fact I would love more then anything for Marcie's Father to find out and publicly humiliate him before he gets exiled and punished for disobeying his Peacekeeper orders. But alas I have to keep a secret if I want his vote and his pregnant fling Marcie Jet who is eyeing me nervously. Maybe I'll reveal it as one last gift before I go. Something especially atrocious to remember me by.

"Good luck." He disappears and I watch him go satisfied I have another secure vote.

I look up at the stage and see Mother walk on nervously. Prince is on the sidelines held by a disgruntled Peacekeeper and I smile slightly at his loud shrieking.

I look up at my Mom's worried face, creased up in case she dare make a mistake reading out the Treaty of Treason. She blinks rapidly from the sun and starts to talk. I tune out for a while, my Mother's trembling voice quite frankly embarrassing me. You would think she could say one tiny ten minute speech the amount of times she's told me off for an hour. I watch the propaganda neutrally, because obviously the Games are going to be a lot more bloody then that. I mean the guy got his head busted in with a rock and there's barely a mark on him. How boring. If you really wanted to kill someone you had to make it worthwhile, make them regret ever angering you or looking at you with pity.

My ears prick up when our escort Creon walks onto the stage. We had him last year; the guy with golden hair and silver eyes surrounded by dazzling diamonds. _So _stylish. He stands out so much from everybody else here in 1 and I already feel like just one of the crowd, nameless-

No.

Everybody in District 1 knows who I am, and soon the whole of Panem will. I can practically smell success in the air.

Creon waves gaudily, teeth glinting almost blindingly in the sun. I hear a few boys sniggering but they don't know anything about fashion. A lump forms in my throat and I shuffle awkwardly, frowning at the familiar sensation gnawing deep inside, travelling to my back where it aches so annoyingly, I should have had something to eat-

"Welcome to the Reapings for the 25th Hunger Games - the very first Quarter Quell! As you know your District has been voting for the last few weeks and the girl tribute is…" Creon fiddles to open the envelope, his golden necklaces chiming together.

I narrow my eyes and start to think of possible threats I could commit if I didn't get voted in, which I better, I _need _to be. My stomach twists with nerves and I pull a face.

"Admire Blanchard!"

I let out a squeal and clap my hands together in joy.

Now I can go in and win and get my ulcer fixed myself as usual. Everyone will know my name and look up to me and be green with envy! I'll be even more rich, I'll have a house in the Victor's Village and even more boys will be queuing up to be with me. My parents will regret not getting me the operation earlier but I certainly won't.

My District loves me, hundreds of people love me and that's so much better then my own annoying family.

The girls step back as I walk past them, fury deep in their dark eyes. Artemis Lazuli looks like she wants to throttle me and I shoot her a particularly smug look, resisting the urge to laugh in her face.

I'll get to meet Ceaser Flickerman and see the beautiful Capitol all for myself while they're stuck back here.

My mother looks at me frostily as I approach but I ignore her, she's just bitter she won't get all the glory.

I smile gleefully as I eagerly climb the stage to a round of raucous applause, staring out at my loveable admirers who cheer and chant my name. My name is Admire, after all; it's what people are supposed to do when confronted with me. Be awestruck and admire me so much that they never see it coming when I steal their poker winnings from under their nose. When they lose swiftly, horribly.

There is no difference between poker and a fight to the death.

Both are games I love to play.

Both are games I play to win.


	3. District Two: Not a Fairytale Pair

**Usually I'd post a longer author's note, but I hit my head and I have a concussion. So let's let the D2's do the talking! - Nina**

**And the reason I didn't do an author's note is that I was a big ol' silly and kept falling asleep on Nina last night. Sorry, Nina! Hopefully all the reapings submitted so far being proofread makes up for it. (: - Belle**

* * *

**Jet Matthews of District 2 **

**By LoveIsBlindness**

* * *

"_We are all born mad, some remain so."_

_—_Samuel Beckett,_ Waiting for Godot_

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**LoveIsBlindness's Note: **

**Hey guys, please call me Lolo. I just want to say a couple things before letting you read this chapter. Jet is age 17 (don't know if I made that clear in the chapter). Also, I want to say a MASSIVE thank you to Nina and Bells for selecting me to join this. And to the other authors, I feel tiny next to you all, because you have some talent! To the readers, I hope you'll enjoy reading all of these interesting characters! Currently, we authors are already rolling some ideas for later on. ;)**

* * *

With light, soundless footsteps, I walk tenderly towards the wide windows that stretch endlessly to the white ceiling. I brush aside the pale, red silk curtains and peer out of the window. The sudden sunlight that emits into the room blinds me. I blink wildly, slowly adjusting to the new bright light, feeling like a new-born baby.

My eyes roam leisurely over the bustling Victor Street below me. Debris is being swept to the side by the typical cleaners. My eyes slide slowly along, landing on a variety of Victors wandering around on the street. I recognize many of them. I know what Games they participated in and how many they'd killed. I know that many of them avoid me whenever I'm out and about…

"_Of course they would avoid you. Everybody hates you…"_ one of the voices inside my head whispers in a nasty, hissing tone. I wince at the harsh sound of the voice as the sound stabs pettishly at my brain again, consuming me with a whirling tide of annoyance.

_Why won't they go away?_ I grit my teeth, squeezing my eyes tight shut, forcibly trying to push the voices out of my head…_They won't leave me alone…Why can't they just shut up today?_

A small cackle of giggles erupts inside my head. My teeth begin to grind together in irritation. Rebecca. It's her.

Rebecca used to be a friend of mine…She is the first voice I encountered. When I was six years old, I was a fairly lonely boy, with no friends—apart from the ones at my old primary school, the ones who were supposed to be my friends—and then Rebecca appeared…in my head. At first, I was scared; I knew that there was something wrong. But Rebecca consoled me. She would comfort me at every particular moment when I felt lonely, miserable, or frustrated. She would assure me that everything was alright, that nothing was wrong…

But…she soon stopped being that gentle friend of mine. She became angry and frustrated with me after I came forward and reluctantly told my parents. She thought I betrayed her…She became intimidating and vicious…

However, my parents realised that I was telling the truth solely, so they immediately took me to the doctor, the only doctor in District Two. I can remember the day when they dragged me through the pouring rain, with my legs kicking in a wild protest as I felt fear about entering the vast, grave-looking, and isolated house which the doctor lived in…

I remember when my parents entered the house and abruptly sat me down, untangling themselves from my tight clutch as the doctor walked over to me. I was screaming, with Rebecca shouting at me inside my head. She would screech at me, saying that the doctor is going to kill me any moment… But I was tied. So I couldn't fly at the doctor's neck.

I remember watching under my heavy eyelashes as the doctor settled down onto a wooden stool, my breathing sounded harsh in the tense atmosphere. The doctor gazed at me steadily. Watching and waiting…Eventually, he asked me what the voice I hear was called. I told him her name and asked him if he knew her. He was a little taken aback at my inquiry. He frowned at me and told me that Rebecca wasn't real.

But…he was wrong. Rebecca is very, very real…She is human…

And it isn't just her now. There are other voices. There is Brick: the growling beastly man. There is Hanna: the impassive woman.

So, after my very brief visit to the doctor's, I was given a medicine box of small pills which were supposed to help me. For the next few weeks, I took the pills—at first, they tasted horrible, and it was difficult for me to swallow them. Despite my reluctance to take them, my parents forced me to. They were scared. They even would force my mouth open and stick the pills deep down into my hoarse throat and demand me to swallow them.

But soon, they became busy with work—they worked in the quarries of District Two—so they left me responsible for the pills. And I never took them again. Immediately, Rebecca and the other two voices came back. I was shocked at how Rebecca transformed into a horrible, taunting bully. She taunted me, gibed me, ridiculed me. She laughed derisively at me whenever I made a petty mistake. She _hated_ me…

She transformed into someone who made me insecure and untrusting of anybody. She, along with Hanna and Brick, always told me that anybody who looked at me wanted to kill me…She went on into these detailed recitations about the steps of murdering somebody…

She and the others sang to me horrible, relentless chants. They sang the old, cursed folk song that haunted District Two years ago…They gave me nightmares. They _changed_ me.

But my life entirely changed after my mother and father's horrible deaths. They were killed by someone mad…They were late arriving home, but when they eventually arrived, they got murdered. I was there…My younger sister was at our grandmother's apartment. It was me who found them dead…But I'm actually happy that they are gone now…I hated them. They had to be gotten rid of.

"_Good thing they're dead…You don't have them telling you what to do now,"_ Rebecca murmured to me. A crooked, feeble smirk twisted the corners of my lips…

Sometimes, I love Rebecca. But other times, I hate her so much that I want to kill her myself. I want to tear her flesh off her bones… I want to make her scream. I want to rip out her eyeballs and bite into them, tasting the metallic blood of them on my tongue…

A quick, sudden burst of giggles ripples from my head. Rebecca is laughing. _"Oh…Jet, my dear, you really ought to do that to someone…Rip out their eyeballs and bite into them."_

"I was thinking about _you_, Rebecca. Aren't you scared?" I growl, unclenching and clenching my jaw repeatedly.

Rebecca laughs derisively. _"You can't kill me, dear. And…if you kill me, you will regret it. You can't live without me. You would die if you don't have me. You have nobody to trust…apart from us…"_

"_Apart from…us. Apart from us…" _Brick chants in repetition. His voice is growling as usual. The sound of him relaxes me. I trust Brick. He understands my desire and hatred of Rebecca. But I occasionally find him scary when he is in one of those common, aggressive moods…

"_Jet…Think about it. You will have an inevitable killing spree in the arena…You can dig out any eyeballs. You can slice any bare, delicious skin and flesh off," _Rebecca says deviously and thoughtfully.

"But how do you know that I will be voted in?" I reply reluctantly, a deep furrow of my brows etches my forehead.

"_Nearly everybody here is frightened of you…They also know you can kill without batting an eyelid. They respect you and Stone. Also, hasn't Stone campaigned for everybody to vote for you? He's a Victor, so everybody listens to him," _Rebecca snaps.

Brick's solemn voice pipes in, _"And just look at the so-called Careers down the street below you, Jet."_

My eyes wander absently down the street, skimming over the flowers that shiver in the light breeze. The sunshine glares down onto the citizens of District Two, their hair gleaming with sweat, their damp faces glistening like jewels. My eyes roam over the large group of Career kids, all surrounding their Mentors, jabbering away at their elders with excitement, glee dancing in their bright eyes.

They believe so strongly that they will win the vote. They don't even have any worries in their minds. They are so confident that they will enter the arena.

That's their disadvantage: over-confidence.

* * *

After getting dressed into a pair of skinny, tattered jeans with a wide belt encircling my waist, I stand back to look into the mirror. Beneath my heavy black leather jacket is a crisp white shirt. Overall, the entire outfit looks good enough to make an impression on the Capitol. It's about perfect, to be frank.

I inhale a deep sigh, studying my dim reflection in the slightly cracked mirror which leans lopsidedly against the painted cream wall. I have a rather narrow face with a thin jaw. The cheekbones look more gaunt than usual, so the shadows stretch prominently from them. My nose is fairly small; it has a large clump of freckles scattering over it. My hair flops loosely over my colourless forehead; wisps and strands frame my thin face. The greasiness and sliminess of my red hair glisten in the dim lights. I bring my skeletal fingers up to my pale crimson strands of short, cascading hair and slither through the wisps.

My eyes land briefly onto the jagged scar peeking from beneath the shirt's collar. I grasp hold of my collar and jerkily tuck it up higher so the scar isn't visible. I return my gaze to my pair of icy eyes. They are crystalline blue, the colour of watery ice—and they are as piercing as ice…

"What are you doing here?"

The gruff tone of Stone's voice draws my eyes around from the wide mirror. I slink my gaze along the endless length of my bedroom, squinting my eyes when I recognize my Mentor. Stone glares at me, his jaw set in an aggressive clench. His fists are gripped at his sides, the veins throbbing through his thin skin, which drapes loosely over his willowy bones. He brings his left hand up and slips in the cigar between his cracked, taut lips, and puffs on it.

That's my Mentor; Stone Hathaway.

He is forty-something—I don't bother asking him. And he is very superior and arrogant. He boasts daily about his Games and the kills he made in the arena. There is pretty much nothing about him that I find vaguely interesting. He is rather like other Victors in District Two; he likes to smoke cigars, bring prostitutes home nearly every night, and go to the pub every Saturday to drink until he passes out.

"What are you _doing_ here? Aren't you supposed to be eating? Aren't you supposed to prepare yourself for being voted? You need to present yourself as superior and ready," he hisses in frustration, obviously not pleased that I'm idling. My lips only twitch nervously in response.

He sighs sharply, breathing through his nostrils and he takes a long stride towards me. Once he reaches me, he lashes out. I wince, but realize that he is only grabbing my arm.

"Now get down to the kitchen and help yourself to some food, right _now_. Stop wasting your time," he growls, narrowing his eyes into menacing slits. His hand on my arm tightens into a vice-like grip, the nails digging into my skin. I flinch feebly at the pain.

Without a single word, I walk past him, heading for the stairs leading down to the floor below. The sweet scent of toasting bread reaches my nostrils and fills me with a burning sensation of hunger. I strut into the kitchen, my eyes roaming coldly over the chairs surrounding the large, marble table. Stone immediately follows me at my heels. He sits down at the table and watches me with no trace of emotion in his face. I outwardly ignore his eyes boring into my back as I butter my crisp toast.

Stone stares blatantly at me as I bite into the crisp toast. "Listen, kid," he begins, "You need sponsors. Without them, you won't last. And don't listen to the voices inside your head. They tell you lies. You hear me? Don't hurt anybody just because they say that people want to kill you…You hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you," I mutter, my voice low and barely audible. I sweep my eyes over the room casually. "Why would I hurt anybody?"

Stone flashes me a quick glare, the loose skin surrounding his eyes crinkling. He roughly shoves his chair back and skirts around the table towards me. Once he reaches me, he forcibly juts his scrunched-up face into mine. "You will _have_ to hurt others…but only in the arena. You hear me? You will only kill others in the arena. Don't hurt or kill anybody before your game. You get that?" he snarls menacingly, spit flying out of his shapeless lip and spraying across my face. He pauses, waiting for a response from me, but I stay neutral. He leans in closer, his pointy nose about an inch away from my narrow nose, "You get that?"

"Yes…I get it," I murmur, my voice hostile and cold. I let out an exasperated sigh, rolling my eyes scornfully at him.

"I know you hate me ordering you around, but I know the risks, unlike you and your imaginary friends. I know the Capitol will find it impossibly easy to butcher you. Think about it; they would grab you in the dark and kill you. They have the power to do that, even if you're the crowd's favourite." He heaves in a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging. Quietly, he mutters to himself, "I never thought training you would be so difficult."

"You…think I'm difficult?" I scoff lightly, the corners of my lips crinkling into a crooked grin. "Anyway, why did you adopt me?" I ask him, even though I already know the answer.

Stone cranes his neck at me, his eyes squinting together. "I adopted you because I needed someone who has killed people before. I needed a ruthless kid; one who is prepared for the Games, and that is you. I didn't adopt you to love you or to have company. Now…Jet, you only got me to trust, so ignore your imaginary friends."

My eyebrows furrow together to form a stern frown. He's wrong, I can't trust him…But can I really trust Rebecca and the others? I mean, I hate them. They never leave me _alone_…That's what I want; to be alone…

"_You can _trust _us because we are the only ones you have!"_ Rebecca screeches at me, her voice pounding against the walls of my skull. I squeeze shut my eyes and grab my head in both of my hands. With brisk movements, I shake my head repeatedly.

Stone stares at me. Shock and realization dawn in his eyes.

"Jet, just ignore them! What they are saying is lies. Just ignore them…Stay calm…Hey, just sit down and breathe in and out," Stone commands. His hands grasp around both of my arms and he guides me to the chair he just sat in. The sharp movement causes me to gasp. I grit my teeth as I slump down onto the chair. Rebecca's voice slowly dwindles…

Then silence invades my head. No voice is heard. No Rebecca, Brick, or Hanna…They're gone.

But not forever. They will return…

Somewhat, I feel relieved to know they will return. Without them…what would I do? They always let me know when danger occurs; they allow me to know whenever somebody is going to hurt me. And they give me company…In spite of wanting to be alone, I would actually be driven insane if I had no company…

Stone purses his lips together, his dark, hopeless eyes boring into mine. "All I can hope is that you won't get into trouble…Listen, Jet, I have some questions to ask you."

"Whatever," I mutter, not even listening to him. My eyes rake through the entire room, exasperated.

"So, Jet, what is your selected weapon?" he asks, upholding the new smile on his stubbly face.

I roll my eyes dramatically. "Don't you already know?"

"Just tell me," he demands bluntly.

"Fine. I'm good at most melee weapons, especially a chained mace and a long sword. But I'm also good at making makeshift knives. So I guess I'm best at makeshift knives," I murmur reluctantly.

"Now, what are your weaknesses?" Stone curtly asks.

My face hardens. Why is he asking me this? Doesn't he want me to be the strongest? I sigh, "Okay…my weaknesses are…that I'm not a fast runner. I can't swim. I'm not as strong as the other Career kids…Oh, I don't know!"

Stone sighs and leans back up into his usual standing, stiff composure. He parts his lips open slowly and says, "Your biggest weakness is that you are a dumb schizophrenic. Can you accept that?"

I hesitate, not sure what kind of situation I am in. "…Yes?"

"Yes," he confirms briskly. He inhales sharply through his nostrils, and presses on at me, "You can beat it. You can turn it into your biggest strength. Just use the help of your sadist _friends_ to get through the Games. Got that?"

"They are not sadists. And I got it…" I mutter exasperatedly.

His eyes bulge as I suddenly leap up from the chair, my legs kicking down the smooth, wooden chair down to the stone flooring. I forcibly shove past Stone and storm out of the room, leaving my mostly-uneaten toast on the table. I hear no other sound but the sharp pounding of my feet on the marble floor of the large hall.

Stone doesn't chase me at all. He just stays where he is in the kitchen, not moving to stop me from running away.

"_No, he won't…He doesn't care about you. He would love it if you get killed…Just leave him; don't be bothered that he doesn't care. You got us…" _Rebecca's voice returns, her voice quivering with excitement. _"Now, let's go to the Reaping."_

I nod curtly, obeying her as I march briskly towards the front door. My hand turns the cold, brass door handle. And suddenly, I'm outside in the noisy clamour in Victor Street. I let out a groan as I shove through the tightly-packed groups of gossiping Career kids and Victors. I don't even pause for a second for anyone to move out of my way. I'm always pushing my way through; I even roughly shove a small girl to the ground, where she earns a nasty gash.

The sobs of the young girl gain attention. Gradually, eyes turn onto her and me; the gossiping dwindles until you can literally hear a pin drop onto the ground. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as eyes bore into my back. The girl's bottom lip quivers like a leaf in a strong breeze. _What a pathetic wimp…_

I scoff to myself under my breath. I avoid the eyes that follow my every step as I walk through the crowd. This time, I don't have to shove people out of the way; every single person steers clear, giving me a wide and empty path. My eyebrows perk a little when a shuffling sound of heavy feet hits the concrete road. Recognition that the footsteps are heading straight for me courses through my bloodstream, boiling it with an intense, insecure, and desperate instinct to run away.

However, I turn to face whoever the person is. My eyes land on the slit eyes of Stone's closest friend, Clay Mills. They both like to go to the nearest pub and drink lots of alcohol until they eventually pass out. Even though Clay isn't a Victor, he still lives on the Victor Street because he is the son of a very old Victor. He trained with weapons since he was only four years old, however he was just not strong enough to win the competitions District Two held for the eighteen years olds during his time, so another bulky Career boy beat him to a bloody pulp in the competitions and entered the Games.

The funny thing is, that Career boy died on Day Two…

"Oh, look at _who_ it is!" Clay guffaws, he slaps his solid stomach as he laughs. The sound of the sudden laughter in the street causes several people to wince a little.

"Is it _Jet Matthews_?" a Victor woman snarls, baring her teeth.

Clay cranes his neck at the woman, whose hair is a vivid, deep shade of red. He nods enthusiastically at her. "Yup, it is Jet. He's Stone's kid."

_Stone's kid…_

Everybody only knows me as Stone's kid…well, only if they've never heard of the rumours…

"Ah…" The woman peers at me beneath her heavy coat of red eyelashes. "Is he the one who everybody talks about? Well, that's a surprise to see him out!"

"Yup," Clay says, popping the 'p' letter. "And, hopefully, he will be voted into these Games. Trust me—he can win this Quarter Quell."

"I voted for you, kid!" a man with a dense, black beard pipes up. I swivel and meet his eyes. He flashes me a cheesy wink. He is one of the trainers that train the Career kids for the Games. And he…voted for me?

The largest Career boy—who is standing right at the front of the large, jostling group of Career kids—automatically steps forward. I watch with amusement as his face contorts with pure rage. Anybody nearby him would practically hear the steam of anger rushing out of his ears. For some reason, I already know why he is furious.

"You said you would _vote_ for _me_! Never _him_!" the muscular boy yells out, fury lacing his voice. The boy marches for his trainer, his huge hands curl into tight fists at his sides. "You _promised_!"

The man glances at him coolly, his entire demeanour unaffected and indifferent. "Listen kid, whenever I promise something, it's not a _promise_. Sorry, kiddo."

The boy's face slowly transforms into a painted mask of red fury, the hurt and betrayal is prominent and clear in his eyes.

"_Aw, the kid is hurt! Stupid kid, go over and hit him to show him where his place is,"_ Rebecca's voice suddenly fills my head. I squint slowly, nodding slightly as I take a long stride towards the pathetic Career boy.

The boy's eyes fill with visible hatred once he sees me walking to him. He sharply looks at me, his thick eyebrows furrowing together to knit a deep frown. "What do _you_ want?"

"Well…I think you deserve this!" I chuckle. Immediately, I slam my fist across his face. The hard impact knocks him slightly off his feet so he stumbles backwards, his cheek reddening after my blow. He suddenly balances himself. His fat fingers reach up to brush softly over his cheek, which is turning into a bruise.

"What the _hell_ was _that_ for?" he shouts out, outraged. One corner of my lips turns up to form a slightly arrogant, crooked grin.

"To show…where your place is with me…" I slowly reply, pausing to allow the words to sink and brand themselves in his brain. The boy's face reddens again with a deeper course of fury. He takes a big step forward, his hands tightening into fists again. However, just before he can punch me squarely across my face, Clay prevents him from doing further damage.

"Oh, kids! Why don't you just play after Jet is done with his victory in the arena? You can get a proper fight afterwards. Not now, not whilst we are celebrating for the Hunger Games…Not whilst you two have to attend the Reaping…" Clay orders, a harsh tidal wave of viciousness seeping into his voice. I give him a small nod, obeying him as I turn away from them both and stride through the crowd to the end of Victor Street.

* * *

As I walk through the town on the usual route towards the square, I encounter no one else at all. I study the posters and borders of colourful celebration of the Hunger Games. All are mounted or taped to the front side of the concrete buildings. On several posters are the memorial pictures of the previous Tributes of District Two: Onyx Marshal and Hyre Fletching, both of whom died…

Eventually, I arrive at the square, and I immediately head for the flanks of Peacekeepers to register in. One quickly pricks my right index finger and swipes my finger down to press the blood onto the crisp sheet. He nods in acknowledgement at who I am.

"Hello, Jet. You'd better not let us all down in these Games," he says in a gruff voice. I narrow my eyes at him and briskly walk by him, not bothering to reply. I guess that he is a Peacekeeper that is from the Nut in this District. The Nut is where many of the citizens are trained to become a Peacekeeper. I have never been inside, and hope I never will.

I heave in a deep sigh as I reach an empty spot in the sections of different ages and genders. I press my lips together firmly until they become a bloodless line. _I cannot let them down…I cannot let them down…_ Gradually, as the clock, mounted on the stone Justice Building, ticks slowly by, more and more people pile into the square until there is hardly any space to breathe in. My eyes are trained on the stage, watching as the Mentor of this year takes his empty seat on the temporary stage. I recognize him. He is twenty, and his name is Malcolm Enclave. He was the Mentor of the previous year, and tutored Onyx and Hyre. Eventually the mayor of this District takes the stage. His hair is combed and waxed so it glistens like oil in the radiating sunlight.

The outrageous clamour of the audience dwindles as the mayor taps his long fingernails onto the microphone to test the sound. I wince a little at the sharp sound, gritting my teeth. The mayor smiles lightly at the crowd. Pleased to hear that we have quieted down, he takes out a small crisp sheet of paper—the Treaty of Treason speech. While the mayor reads the Treaty of Treason, my gaze wanders off to the rooftops of the gray concrete buildings. Atop of them are large, black cameras perched like buzzards, watching their prey…Waiting to see their new pawns…

"_But you won't be their pawn…"_ the voices whisper quietly at the back of my mind. I roll my eyes at them. How would they know that? I could easily become a Capitol pawn without even noticing…

At last, the mayor finishes his droning speech and he folds the piece of paper, flashing the cameras a small grin. "And I introduce you all to the new District Two escort. His name is Rainbow Candy!"

A round of roars erupts from the audience, however I sigh airily as a very bony man skips onto the stage. This man darts his eyes towards the crowd, then to the cameras, the crooked grin on his face full of glee. It seems like we have a very…_jubilant_ escort. I frown slightly at the streaks of vivid rainbow dye running through his shoulder-length hair; even worse, he has colourful rainbow tattoos encircling his skeletal arms all the way up to the short sleeves of his shirt. Rainbow beams, casting bright rainbow colours in an endless round of flashing lights; he is wearing braces.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen!" he screams, most likely trying to get himself heard over the relentless round of roars and shouts of anticipation from the crowd. He grins even wider as the audience's noise dwindles and eventually lapses into silence. He walks closer to the front of the stage with the microphone in his bony hand. "Well, well, well! Isn't this exciting? This is the first Quarter Quell ever! And the Districts are _voting_ for who they want to be their Tributes! Doesn't that sound amazing?"

Small murmurs of agreement and approval ripple from the audience in a chorus. Rainbow grins genuinely again, his eyes expanding to the size of saucepans, the yellow colour of them appearing as radiant as the sun. The patience I contained inside me slowly fades as the escort continues to interact with the audience. I just _want_ it to be over! I _need_ it to be—

"Right! Shall we find out the voted Tributes of District Two?" he squeals, skipping like a little kid skips to a sweet shop towards the females' glass bowl. He gives us all a wink, which I suppose he hopes brings suspense to the audience. I can practically see the excitement wafting off him!

_Oh, just get it over with…_ I think inwardly.

"Ooh…who is going to be the female? Do you wanna find out?" he shouts out to the loud clamour of the audience. His grin broadens into a Cheshire grin. With the camera jutting in his face, he swirls his fingers around the top of the bowl. I squint when I notice there is actually only one note containing the name of the girl inside the bowl; the same goes for the male bowl.

Rainbow eventually dips his pale hand into the glass bowl and goes straight to the bottom, where he catches the one note. He brings it out slowly, almost leisurely. It's pretty obvious that he likes to kill us with suspense. He walks back to the front, with the note gripped tightly in his hand. He pries open the note and reads out the name: "The female Tribute of District Two is…Sade Artois!"

Automatically, the audience begins murmuring again. I press my lips together sternly, waiting to see the girl before judging her. I've heard of the name, it is well-known—especially the surname. I try to recall the face and instantly remember. The girl's father owns a big business organization, and he uses Sade's—his daughter's—face to represent his business. I know already that she trains and that she is popular in the school of District Two. But that's pretty much all I know about her so far…

_Is that why the citizens of this District voted for her? To find out more about her? To see if she is the typical Career she makes herself to be?_

"_Probably…Overall, she has to be killed. She is a threat. Before you kill her, get to know her, know her secrets…"_ Brick's voice suddenly fills my head. The sudden return of his voice jolts me back to the reality.

Rainbow is calling out to Sade, telling her in that ridiculous accent of his that we _all _want to see her. Fortunately, I'm tall and lanky so I don't have to stand on tiptoes to see the girl. There is a short girl with a nice curvy figure strutting towards the stage, her long, light blonde hair sways softly in a high ponytail behind her back. She looks small and quite average…But when she stands up on the stage, shakes Rainbow's hand and faces the audience, I instantly catch sight of her scar. She has a long scar starting from her left eyebrow and running down to her jaw. And the way she arches her eyebrows derisively at the crowd shows the cockiness of her attitude.

"_Looks like we got a player…"_ Rebecca murmurs, modest for the first time.

Right now, Rainbow is pulling out another note out of the male's bowl…

_Is it going to be me? Who is it going to be? Would I be disappointed if it is not me…? What would Stone do with me if he finds out there is no more use of me if I'm not voted?_

"_It'll be you…I just know…"_ Rebecca says smarmily.

"The male Tribute of District Two is…Jet Matthews!"

_Me._

"Where is Jet Matthews?" Rainbow shouts aloud, his eyes slithering through the crowd, looking for me. I adopt a small, twitching sly smirk on my face and take a long, confident stride towards the stage. I raise my hand up amongst the crowd of boys.

"I'm here. I'm Jet Matthews!" I shout in response. Once my hoarse voice is heard, the crowd immediately parts away for me to stride through. I smirk a little at the faces on the other boys. There are a few hints of fear, envy and hatred. Eventually, the walk of victory is over as I walk up the stairs leading to the stage. Rainbow dashes forward, his palm outstretched. I stare at it.

"Hello, Jet!" he says in a loud shrill with a ridiculous accent. His eyes flicker between his hand and mine. "Aren't you going to shake my hand?"

"Why _should _I?" I snarl. My eyes flare with distrust and suspicion. _Would he hurt me if I touch him…?_ "How can I trust you?"

Rainbow makes a several constant gulps like he is trying to swallow something stuck inside his throat, causing his Adam's-apple to bob gauntly up and down his smooth throat. "Alrighty then!" He turns his back to me and faces the audience, putting the beam back onto his face and he shouts out, "Here I introduce you all the Tributes of District Two—Sade Artois and Jet Matthews!"

I glance at Sade and lean forward to shake her willowy, toned hand. She glares fiercely at me. It is already apparent that she doesn't like me…This knowledge forces me to flash her a small, sly grin. _Good, if she already doesn't like me, then it would make making her life hell even easier._

* * *

In the Justice Building, I await for my visitors on the velvet, burgundy couch. My piercing eyes slink around the room airily. None of these elaborated items interest me. Nor does food interest me. It is only the Tributes and weapons that will get me tuned in. They are what I shall be facing in a couple days…Already, I'm imagining ways of cutting through the fleshy skin…of Sade. I relish and crave the day-dreams of hearing her scream out bloodcurdling screams…and watching her bleed to death. No matter how dangerous and unstable my day-dreams make me sound, they don't scare me…at all. It is scarce that I get these moments of pleasure…

Instantly, the memory of my first two _kills _fills my head…

The small creak of the door penetrates my thoughts. I sharply glance up to see Stone standing in the doorway with his dense fists hidden deep in his pockets. A sneer instantly takes control of my facial expression. The sheen on Stone's sweaty skin gleams sickly in the neon lights.

"Happy now?"

He raises an eyebrow slightly, wrinkling his forehead. "Yes. But, I will be a _lot_ happier if you _win_ this Quarter Quell. You hear me? You can't let your District down; you can't let _me_ down. If you let me down, I won't even accept your coffin to arrange your funeral. You hear me?"

"Yes…I hear you," I gripe, raking my gaze along the wall. Stone gives me a skeptical gaze before leaning absently against the smooth doorframe.

"_Tell him…to have more confidence in you…"_ Brick's voice fills my head.

"Brick wants to make sure you know that you should have more confidence in me…" I mutter carelessly, scorn lace my voice. I roll my eyes when Stone exchanges a look with me, my eyes automatically shift to the side, avoiding his soulless eyes.

"Brick?…Oh, that's one of your friends. Well, tell him that I do have confidence in you. I know that you are stronger than others. You can do it," Stone says, when he doesn't get a response from me, he continues, "You know that I have pretty much wasted my entire life on _you_, you little scum-bag. So you better get to the Final Two and win."

For a moment, I experience a rushing tidal wave of pure hatred and rage rushing through me as I glare at Stone with my nostrils flaring. _He pisses me off…I hate him. He deserves to die a long, suffering death…_

It makes me wonder how I survived the years of living with him. At least, when I win this Quell, I won't have to live with him again. I'll get _rid_ of him easily.

Stone grins widely, exposing his ill-treated teeth. "That's how you should behave in the arena…Just be intimidating and plan your killings…That should be fun for you. Use your imaginary friends in the arena. Let me tell you something: when I was in the arena…it felt like _home_. You probably will experience that exact same feeling as well."

"…Home. I don't exactly want home. I want something better than that. I want the arena to be like a battlefield…" I pause, squinting as I ponder deeply. "Then I'll be happy in a battlefield…A field of red—"

"—Blood. Yes…you will get a battlefield, don't worry. If you don't get a battlefield, then _make_ one. I know you can make one," Stone replies with malice and glee glinting in his dark pits of eyes.

I don't make a response. I just tip my chin up higher and give Stone a proud, slightly excited look. He slowly nods at me, recognizing the bloodthirstiness that is already flaring in my icy eyes.

A Peacekeeper enters the room, his cheekbones so gaunt that it gives him a sneering facial expression. He grabs Stone's arm, implying that our goodbyes are over. Stone jerks his arm out of the Peacekeeper's arm and shoots him a hard, cold glare. "Can I just say one last thing? Jet, all you need to do is _remember_. Remember what you did to your parents…Remember that one night when you killed them out of rage and desperation. Use that one memory to help you to _kill_…"

I smirk airily. "I don't need help…"

"_Only our help…Only our help…Just us,"_ all three voices chant simultaneously.

Stone returns my smirk, and for the first time he appears to be _proud_…Without saying another word, he walks straight out of the room with the tall Peacekeeper following. Silence quickly fills the room, with the neon lights dancing across my darkening vision. The thoughts of the arena…make me want to close my eyelids and dream for a moment of the battlefield…I'd make…

A small knock on the door immediately draws my attention back to the reality, my eyelids instantly spring open and I glare at the creaking door. As the door slowly draw open, a swirl-storm of suggestions for whoever it might be cross my mind; is it Clay, the Mentor I spoke to before the Reaping or the Career boy I fought with?

To my surprise, my new visitor is a girl, a petite girl with the same strawberry hair as my own. Nearly her entire features mirror my own. She has a narrow face, reddish hair, straight nose, gaunt cheekbones and…lastly—but the most obvious feature—the piercing blue eyes.

_It can't be…_

…This girl is my younger sister…

What is _she_ doing here?

"…Violet? Is that you?" I whisper, my voice cracking as I gaze at her with no remote emotion in my voice. She stares at me, her eyes wide; the red eyelashes brush against her pale complexion.

"Yeah. It's me. So…you remember me," she mutters. Her cheeks twitch with nervousness. She presses her lips together when I nod my head in return. She closes the door and slides slowly down the side of the white wall, her fingers splaying out over the wall. She is keeping her distance away from me.

"Of course I remember you…You're my baby sister. So, how have you been these last few years?" I make an attempt at starting a conversation as I notice her nervousness showing in her jerkily-moving fingers.

She frowns, her eyebrows knitting together as she looks skeptically at me. "I've been fine. Why do you ask?"

"_Why do I ask?_ For God's sake, I haven't seen you in like, a decade."

"It _has_ been a decade," she snaps, her eyes flaring. "It has been a decade…since you killed our parents when you were six years old. You—psychopath…"

A smile crinkles up my face. I promptly stand up and stride straight towards Violet, who is glaring at me. When I jut my face into hers, I notice some new bravery in her—she isn't even batting an eyelid. "What are _you_ doing here? Do you want me to kill you, too?"

Violet's eyes squint together into angry slits. "Try, jerkwad."

"_Answer_ my question!" I hiss fiercely into her face. She flinches and recoils from me as my sharp breath hit her pale face.

"I'm here because I want to…say a final goodbye to you."

"You know I'm going to _die_, huh?" I snarl menacingly. Does she actually think that I'll be dead in a couple of days?

"Jet, think about it. You will be dead. The Gamemakers will make sure of it," she murmurs. She purses her lips together and draws in a sharp breath.

"I'm not going to die…I'll return," I say. I swallow and pause before continuing with a light smirk on my face as I step another step towards her. "And when I do, I'll finish you off. Shame that you weren't there during the _exciting event _that night. At least, it will give me something to do when I complete my Games…When I return, I will hunt you down and dig my knives deep into your lovely gullet."

Violet turns onto me with angry eyes. "Not before I stab my knife right through your heart," she hisses. "Oh, wait, you don't even _have_ a _heart. _You're empty! Useless!"

"_Useless?_ Hah! We'll see about that. We'll see who will win our cat-and-mouse game." I smirk and slowly swivel to walk back to the couch. "Just to let you know, you have absolutely no chance with me…Because I'm the cat…and you're the mouse."

"We'll see about that…" Violet snaps. She breathes heavily through her nostrils. "I _hate_ you so, so, so much!"

"Shame, really, because I find you quite entertaining. I like you." I lean back into the soft couch, my fingers run loosely over the velvety fabric. "Anyway…you've changed…You used to be _pathetic_."

"Pathetic? I've changed?" she hisses furiously, her eyes glint with the fury that lace her voice. "I think it's _you_ who's changed the most! The reason I'm not backing down in a fight is that I'm currently training to be a Peacekeeper in the Nut. Ever heard of the Nut?"

The _Nut?_ She is working there? My own little sister?

I raise my eyebrows, perking them into an arched line.

She glares at me, her upper lip curling backwards to grace the sneer on her face. "Nobody wanted me. When _you_ killed our parents and that Victor took you away, I was left with nobody. I became an orphan. And I was useless. Well, useless until I went to the Nut to train. That means you won't be able to kill me, because I'm a future Peacekeeper, so it would give you a death penalty. Also, I'll _fight_ back…"

I feign a yawn. "Boring, boring, boring. _Whatever_. I'd actually prefer it if you fight back, because I like a _long_ game to play… Anyway, are you finished now?"

"Nearly," she mutters. She reaches her willowy fingers into her crisp, white trousers and fingers around for something. Eventually, she takes out a silver chain… Instantly, as she draws closer to me, I recognize it.

…Our mother's chain…

"I want you to have this. Have it as your token. I just thought…that you never changed, but well, this encounter has changed my mind—you changed, alright. For the worst. In which case, this chain will remind you of what you did to our mother." She leans forward, her strawberry blonde hair swaying as she stares straight into my own eyes. "Remember the bad person you are…"

"Boring, _boring_. Now get out." I jerk my thumb directly at the door. Violet gulps, her eyes brim with tears.

"Don't you love mother?" she asks in a feeble voice.

I contemplate that, and immediately I know the answer. "No. Never."

Violet clenches her jaw, the veins in her temple throbbing gauntly. She briskly drops the chain onto my lap and marches straight out of the room without a single 'goodbye'. The door slams loudly in her steps. I flit my eyes down to the silver chain lying on my lap. It glistens softly in the neon lights, the metal tarnished due to the many years of mistreatment. I recall the memories of my mother wearing this. I can also remember the love I felt for her. I lied to Violet. I did love her. But…now, I can't seem to find that exact love I felt years ago. The love went missing…

I give a careless shrug. _Who cares?_ I don't need love in order to survive in Panem. Love is nothing compared to the power of the voices inside my head. They are my _survival_. Love is useless and I don't need it…

The door creaks open and a hoarse voice tells me to get out of the room, as it is time for me to leave. Leave. It is _time_.

Time for me to go to the Capitol and play _games_…

* * *

**Sade Artois of District 2**

**By NotReallyAnOriginalUsername**

* * *

"_My dad used to say that with everything in life, there's a game changing moment. The one moment everything hinges upon, but you hardly know it at the time."_

_—_Jenny Han

* * *

I pull the worn fabric of my quilt closer around me, running my fingers along the carefully hand-stitched patches. It smells like home; all warm and fresh with a hint of my mother's lavender perfume. If it wasn't for my noisy-ass brother downstairs, that smell—that comfort—would have drawn me back into the depths of sleep. If today wasn't the most important day of my life.

I swing my legs around to the edge of the bed, shivering slightly as the cold morning air raises the hair on my arms. Digging my toes into the soft carpet of my room, I smile. Today's the day; the day Sade Artois's life really starts. Today is the Reaping.

I skip to the bathroom, switching on the bright lights that line the top of my mirror. My reflection makes me flinch away slightly. How can someone be so gorgeous when they go to bed, but wake up so hideous? I grab a comb and smooth my blonde waves away from my faces, securing them with a hair tie. Spreading a thick blue goop on my truth brush, I scrub my teeth harshly. My teeth sparkled, almost literally. I splash my face with cool water, washing the tired out of my eyes and bringing light to my face.

There's a loud crash coming from the kitchen and I roll my eyes, knowing it's Jace. He's always up before me doing something incredibly loud. I flick off the light and make my way down the hallway to the living area.

Jace is in the kitchen flipping pancakes, and as soon as he spots me, he smiles. "Morning, Sadey!"

Jace is my brother, though you never could have guessed it. He towered over my petite figure, and probably had the ability to crush anything or anyone at any given time. His dark chocolate waves were a complete contrast to my feathery blonde locks. In fact, the only thing we shared was the deep sage color of our eyes.

I run over to hug him, a huge smile spreading across my face, "Guess what today is?"

Something in Jace's eyes changes, but his smile doesn't disappear, "How could I forget? Some pest has been talking about it all week." He rumples my hair and I punch his shoulder, laughing.

Life with Jace was easy, laid-back. That's why I had requested to live separately from my mother and father. I didn't have to worry about the constant tension that always filled the air when the entire family was together. All my father cared about was his business and how he could improve it; my mother just followed him wherever he went.

My father owned Artois Inc., one of the largest companies in Panem. We had more money than we needed, or wanted. I was spoiled to say the least, I always got whatever I wanted. You can blame it on my looks, or my money, or just my background in general, but I always did. No exceptions.

That's why it was easy to convince my parents to let Jace and I get a separate home. Not to mention my brother was always threatening my father. They gladly dumped us in a middle-class home, or at least a house that was in a middle class area. It was nothing compared to my father's mansion, but it was much larger than the homes that surrounded us.

I walk around to the other side of the counter and sat down on a stool.

"Are you training today?" Jace asks.

"Echo told me not to. I need to look my absolute best," I say, smiling.

Echo is my trainer. She's the only girl I can get along with, maybe because she's the only one who really gets me. Or maybe it's because I've spent every day with her since I turned ten. She's also the only person who doesn't put up with my "bullshit" (her words, not mine).

"You better get started, then. It's already ten."

"Shit!" I push the stool out from under me.

"Hey! Language, young lady!" Jace says, trying not to laugh.

"Oops," I shrug as I start running down the hallway.

"What about pancakes?"

"Sorry Jace!"

I run into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Letting my hair fall down from my ponytail, I comb my fingers through it. I braid two sections in the front, pinning them away from my face. Thankfully, my hair was easy to work with; my soft waves falling gracefully down my back.

I dab on concealer and line my eyes with a light brown gel, slightly turning it up on the ends. Pinching my cheeks to turn them a light pink color, I smile at my reflection. Sade Artois, soon to be District 2 tribute, was really as hot as they come.

In my room the dress I had picked the day before is hanging on the back of my desk chair. It was a backless plain black dress, with sleeves that stopped at my elbows. The hemline stopped about an inch above my knee, long enough for my father, but short enough for his customers. Sighing, I pull the dress over my head, careful not to mess up my hair.

Walking over to my closet, I flick on the light. My shoes are on the far wall, each organized into their own cubbies. I have so many pairs of training and running shoes it isn't even funny. My "dress-up" shoes take up two rows, and I scan them. Deciding heels would be too formal, and too clunky, for this occasion I pick out a pair of gold sandals.

After I finish getting ready, I walk over to my full length mirror and admire my reflection. It's obvious that I train. My muscles are toned to perfection, but it's not just that. I've always believed there's a certain look to Careers, the way they hold themselves, the way they talk; like they're constantly ready for a fight, for anything anyone throws at them.

"Sadey? Are you ready?" My brother taps his knuckles against my door frame lightly and I turn around.

"More so than I'll ever be," I smile.

Jace and I decide to walk to the square. I know Jace is having a hard time with me deciding to enter the Hunger Games. He keeps saying that the people of District 2 wouldn't have the nerve to vote the face of my father's business—Artois Incorporated—into the Games. I didn't know if he was trying to convince me, or himself.

My entire life has consisted of my preparing myself for the Games. Every scar, broken bone, torn muscle, they've led up to this day. Today is the day I'd be chosen for the Games, and it's all the more special because of the Quarter Quell.

This year the Capitol decided to start the "Quarter Quell", a special version of the Games that occurred every twenty five years. Each Quarter Quell would have an aspect about it that made it different from the rest of the Games. This year, it was decided that each District would vote for who they wanted to send into the arena. The minute I heard, I knew this year would be the year I went in and played my part in the Games. It had to be.

Outside campaigning posters line fences and buildings, most of them are of my face. Some of mine are digital, videos of me fighting, or making my way through an obstacle course. My father and Echo made sure to make me look good.

"Are you excited?" I turn to Jace, bouncing slightly.

"Oh Sadey…" He smiles at me, but I know it's fake. His eyes avoid mine.

"Why can't you be happy, Jace?" I ask, frustrated.

"I am happy. Let's not talk about it, we don't even know if you made it or not yet," He smiles at me, nudging me with his elbow.

I laugh, stumbling slightly. Steadying myself, I look up, only to be met with a pair of bright blue eyes. My heart stutters, and I stop walking. Colton.

The corner of his lips turns up when he sees me and my knees become weak. Oh God. Not now Sade, quit being so mushy.

Colton Hayes. I never understood why he had such an effect on me. Maybe it was the way his dark curls fell in front of his perfect blue eyes, or the way he rubbed the back of his neck nervously when he talked to me. Maybe it was simply the way he talked to me. Whatever it was, it never failed to make my heart stop.

"Hey, Sade," Colton says.

"Colton," I say, leaning against the wall next to him. I wave at Jace, signaling that I'd catch up with him later.

I met Colton when I was ten, at my first day of training. It was obvious from the start that he was never going to be a Career. His aim was so far off he hit me within twenty minutes of knife throwing. My hands twitch towards my face, the pale scar that lines my left eyebrow all the way down to my chin, but I resist.

He quit training two years ago, saying he had no use for it. He really didn't, if he was Reaped, someone was always going to volunteer. I was always thankful for that. I never had to worry about having to hurt him in the Games.

"So, today is the day," Colton says, his voice sad.

"I know," I smile.

We start walking again. The streets are becoming more filled; a loud chatter fills the air. People are smiling, younger children are running around. A small girl runs up to me and tells me she wants to be like me. I laugh and run my fingers through her long blonde hair. She is a spitting image of me when I was her age.

Then there are the few people that walk around with their head down, their faces solemn. I never understood these people. Usually they were the lower class, people that couldn't afford training for their children, but what did they honestly have to worry about? Someone would always volunteer, someone that could win and bring pride to our District. Someone like me.

A few more people walk up to me, telling me my campaigning speech was riveting, and that I was the obvious choice for this year's female tribute. I smile and thank them, touching my chest in surprise. Of course, it wasn't actually a surprise. I already knew the people loved me, it wasn't hard to convince them to.

Colton walks next to me, silent. I watch him study each person that greets me, his stance becoming guarded and tense when a young man comes up to talk to me. He's always acted like I was some kind of fragile flower. That's the only thing I couldn't stand about him, the fact that he thought I wasn't strong enough to handle myself.

I stop beside a small park, sitting on a small bench. Colton stares at me for a moment before sitting down too. I look up at the sky, breathing deeply. It was gorgeous outside today. The sun lit up District 2, making everything that much happier.

"Are you nervous?" Colton asks.

I smile, watching the people that walk by us, "Of course not. I've been preparing for this day my entire life. Why would I be nervous?"

"What if they didn't vote you in?"

"They did."

"Cocky."

I turn to him sharply, narrowing my eyes, "Confident."

Colton rolls his eyes, laughing slightly. He leans back, slinging his arms across the back of the bench. I glare at him, before turning back to watch the people cross in front of us.

"Has anyone ever told you how…absolutely gorgeous you are? Even with your face twisted in a grimace?" I can feel his eyes on me as he says this.

I blush, looking down at my lap. With most boys, I knew that a compliment meant they were just trying to get in my pants. But with Colton, he meant it. Colton didn't just hand out compliments, you could bet money on the fact that he meant what he said.

"We should get going, it's about to start," Colton says, getting up. He offers me his hand. "C'mon."

I stand up, smoothing my dress down, "How do I look?"

I toss a lock of blonde hair behind my shoulder, pushing my chest forward and tilting my head up slightly.

"Like a Career," Colton says. Normally, I would love to hear this—especially coming from him—but something about the way he says it makes me mentally flinch away from him.

I think about Colton's response as we start walking toward the square. Like a Career. What did that mean? Obviously, it was a compliment. Being a Career is a blessing, something to be proud of. I turn to look at him, his head held high. I knit my eyebrows together. Of course he meant to compliment me when he said that.

We fall in step with the other kids, some of them turning to look at me and then going to whisper about themselves. We stop and I turn to the Peacekeeper controlling the roped off area.

"Sade Artois," I say. He smirks slightly, signaling me to move forward.

Colton and I break off from one another. Standing in the seventeen-year-old girls section, I take my time to study this year's escort and mentor. The mentor is the same as last year; Malcolm Enclave. He's easy on the eyes, but definitely not my type. From what I could tell from some of last year's interviews with the mentors, he wasn't exactly friendly.

The mayor stands up and tapes the microphone and everyone silences immediately, turning towards the stages. As the mayor goes on and on about the reasons we have The Hunger Games, all things I've heard a million times before. I bounce on my toes impatiently, almost ready to scream that no one cares. We're here to find out who the tributes our. The history of Panem is in the past for a reason.

I turn to the boy's section, meeting Colton's eyes. He's laughing at me, rolling my eyes.

"What?" I mouth.

He waves his hand dismissively, turning back towards the stage. The crowd erupts in applause as the mayor introduces the escort, causing me to miss the strange man's name.

Our escort is something else entirely. Some Capitol styles can have their elegance about them, but this guy took style and threw in a whole new level of crazy. His hair was neon yellow, and his eyes shone through eerie yellow slits; almost like a cats. His arms and face were covered in strange rainbow designs, and he had a set of metal things lining his teeth to match. I roll my eyes as he begins clapping like a small child.

"Welcome, Welcome!" His voice is bright and cheery, and I find myself clapping as well. "Who's ready to find out who this year's Quarter Quell tributes are?"

The crowd goes wild once again. The Head Peacekeeper climbs the steps to the stage, handing the escort to crisp, white envelopes.

I'm going mad now. One of those envelopes contains this year's District 2 female tribute. I roll up onto the balls of my feet, struggling to peer over the large burly girl in front of me. She turns to glare at me and I raise an eyebrow, snarling slightly.

"Alright, alright," he smiles again, this time the sun catches the metal on his teeth. "Ladies first!"

The long, decorated fingernails on the tips of his bony fingers clink against the glass of the bowl the single piece of paper swims in. COME ON!

The strange rainbow man clears his throat and smiles, "SADE ARTOIS!"

I will myself to not jump up and do a toe-touch in the middle of the crowd of seventeen year olds. Instead, I flick my blonde hair behind my shoulders, and stick my nose in the air. People clear a path for me. This is what it meant to be a Career, this is how you were defined.

I can feel every camera following me up the stairs to stage, every pair of eyes wide in awe.

"Well Sade Artois, how old are you?" The escort is even stranger looking up close, but I keep my smile and I turn to speak into the microphone.

"Seventeen," Shooting my winning smile to the crowd.

They erupt into applause again. Rainbow man waves his hands, trying to settle them down.

"Now, now. As lovely as this dear is," He turns to me, bowing slightly. A few wolf whistles can be heard in the crowd. "We still have our male tribute!"

I try to wrack my brain for who was campaigning for male tribute. Elias Jefferson was the only name that I could think of. Oh, and Jet Matthews. An involuntary shiver runs through my body.

I straighten my back and try to widen my smile.

"And this year's male tribute is…" The paper crinkles next to the microphone as he unfolds it. There's a pause and I can practically hear everyone draw in a breath. "JET MATTHEWS!"

Shit. Jet Matthews. Of course it would be him. I would have had no problem with killing Elias, he would be an easy kill. Jet, on the other hand…I had no clue what to expect from him. He scared me, which was something rare, something that just pissed me off. He lived in the orphanage, though he had some family living out on the outskirts of the District. They didn't want him, and I understood why.

Jet was always talking to himself. Which wasn't all bad, but it was the way he talked to himself. When he looked at you, you could feel the murder in his glare. He took psycho to a whole other world.

There's a small applause as Jet's tall, thin figure emerges from the crowd. His thin face is covered by shaggy, greasy red hair and I almost grimace. I study him, as I can feel him studying me. When his eyes meet mine, they narrow into thin slits, the blue shining coldly like ice. A burst of fear courses through my veins, though I don't dare look away.

"Jet Matthews," Even our brightly colored escort is having trouble masking his fear. "How old are you?"

Jet looks from the man, to me, to the crowd, and back at the man again. "Seventeen." His voice is cold, sinister.

"There you have it District 2! Your 25th Hunger Games tributes, Jet Matthews and Sade Artios!" Rainbow man claps, turning towards the crowd.

I smile, waving and blowing a small kiss. Then I turn to Jet, reaching my hand out to shake his. His hand is much larger than mine, but much bonier and colder. His grasp is firm, and when our eyes meet again, goose bumps form on my arms.

A pair of Peacekeepers lead us into the building us, shoving us into separate rooms to say our goodbyes. In the room it's quiet, much quieter than it was outside. I exhale loudly as I sit down on the red velvet loveseat against the back wall. Scrunching up my nose slightly, observing the décor of the small room. It definitely wasn't the best choice in colors.

Jace opens the door first and I stand up, throwing myself into his arms.

"I did it, Jace!" I smile excitedly.

He nods, looking down. When he looks back up at me, he has tears in his eyes, though he tries to hide them by smiling. "You know how to win this thing, Sadey. Just come home, alright?"

I throw my arms around his shoulders, "Don't worry. If anyone can get out alive, it'll be me."

He steps back and nods. "Go out there and be everything I couldn't be, alright, sis?"

I nod. Jace reaches into his pocket, pulling out a thin silver chain. On the end of the chain, a small silver bird hangs, its eye a small green jewel. The metal shines, reflecting the light delicately. I take it from him, staring at it in awe. I'd never seen anything so simply beautiful. I wrap the delicate chain around my neck, clasping it securely in place.

"Thank you, Jace," I whisper, toying with the new weight around my neck.

"It was going to be for your birthday…but you needed a token," He shrugs. I hug him again.

A Peacekeeper opens the door. "Time's up."

Jace pulls me to him tighter. "I love you, Sadey. I'll see you soon."

I kiss my pinky and he does the same, locking it with mine.

"I'll see you soon."

As he leaves, I find my eyes welling with tears at the realization that that might be the last time I ever see Jace. My grip tightens on the thin chain around my neck. I swallow the lump in my throat, promising myself that it won't be. I have no time to think negatively.

The door slams open and Colton bursts into the room, pulling me into his arms. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling deeply before he takes my face in both his hands and makes me look at him. His warm blue eyes shine with tears.

"Come home." His voice is firm, almost angry.

"Of course," I nod.

"I've watched you train. You're amazing, Sade." He laughs weakly. "I have no reason to be worried."

"Of course," I say again, this time it's barely there, just a weak whisper that falls through the air.

His lips are centimeters away from mine. I can feel the electricity pulsing between us, making my knees weak. Colton seems to notice this as well now. His blue eyes break off from mine, looking down at my lips, licking his own. I nod, almost as if giving him permission.

He leans forward, pressing his lips firmly against mine. Warmth spreads throughout my body, my head becoming light as his fingers hold my face against his. I reach up for him, my hands gripping the sleeves of his shirt. Then, he's gone; pulling away as quickly as he had come.

"You're going to be fine," Colton smiles. He reaches up, his fingers gently touching the scar that lines the left side of my face. I flinch away from him slightly.

He frowns, "You're a picture, and this is simply your frame."

We stand in silence for a few moments before a Peacekeeper opens the door and signals for Colton to leave. Colton follows the man out, and I realize I forgot to tell him something.

"Wait, Colton!" I try to hold the door open.

"Just tell me later, Sade," he smiles and winks.

Nodding, I move to sit back on the couch. My head is spinning. I feel like crying now, though I don't know whether it's sad or happy tears. Wiping at my eyes I huff in frustration. Quit it, Sade. He's just a boy. Get a hold of yourself.

I inhale and exhale until my heart slows.

As my visiting hour comes to an end I'm almost sure that my parents aren't coming. I'm surprised my mother hasn't shown yet, usually she'll at least make an effort to show up.

Getting up, I straighten my dress. There's a small mirror above a desk in the corner and I walk over to it. I smooth my hair down, and pinch my cheeks again. I still look amazing. Perfect. Can't have those tears showing, especially since I have no reason to be crying.

Suddenly, the door opens and my mother peaks her head around the corner. When she sees me, she smiles.

"Oh, Sade! Aren't you just a beauty." She prances over to me and wraps me in her arms. "Sorry I wasn't here sooner, your father—"

"It's fine," I cut her off.

She smiles, her teeth shining unnaturally. Reaching over my shoulder, she toys with a lock of blonde hair.

"Oh!" She squeaks. "I have something for you…"

"It's fine, Jace already got me…" I reach up to stop her, but she shakes her head and pulls out a small white envelope.

"It's a note from your uncle," She knits her eyebrows together.

My uncle? That was strange. My uncle, Ryne Artois, was the Head Peacekeeper of District 11. I rarely hear from him, and when I do, it's mostly about a riot of some sort.

I thank my mother, hugging her. She places the palm of her thin hand on my cheek and nods.

"I'm not worried about you in the least, Sade," Her eyes grow sad. "You're the strongest little woman I know."

"Thanks, mom," I pause for a second. "I love you, mom."

She smiles and hugs me again, holding me in her arms until the Peacekeeper comes in and pulls her away from me.

I sit down on the loveseat, looking up at the clock. I only have five more minutes of my visiting hour. Looking down at the small note in my hands, I carefully break the seal before unfolding it. My uncles messy scrawl fills the page. What I read makes me jump back in surprise. I reread it a couple more times before nodding slightly.

"Time to go," A Peacekeeper says as he opens the door. I get up, tossing the note onto the couch.

As I walk out the door, I look back once. Though the notes sloppy message is clear, I can't help but me confused.

"_Eric Fiske. District 11 Male._

_Kill him. Kill him slowly."_


	4. District Three: ShortCircuited

**Hey guys! So glad everyone is enjoying. Working on replying to reviews. I've got a concussion and still not feeling well so Belles has done all the grammar checks and such.**

**Hope you enjoy these kids XD**

* * *

**Brennadon "Bren" Rydik of District 3**

**By Fritz as Pritz**

* * *

_"A baby is born with a need to be loved,  
__and never outgrows it."_

_—_Frank A. Clark

* * *

**Fritz as Pritz's A/N:**

**For those of you who don't know, flourishing is basically twirling the quarterstaff from side to side.**

* * *

Westley wipes away the sweat from his brow and twirls the thick branch around in his hand. His white Peacekeeper outfit is practically brown and drenched in his sweat. This isn't the first time I'm glad I didn't inherit his over-productive sweat glands. He bounces on his toes and makes sure to keep his feet shoulder length apart. His eyes—the same shade of gray as mine—are fixed on my shoulders as I begin to flourish the quarterstaff in my hand.

"I think that's enough," I say as I try to catch my breath.

Before he replies, he strikes at me with the branch, trying to get my exposed shoulder while my staff is on the opposite side. My hand immediately slides onto the end of my weapon so I can quickly move the quarterstaff downward, parrying his strike. I do this with enough strength to force Westley to release his grip, causing the branch to fall uselessly on the ground.

He steps back and lifts up his hands palms out. "Now you're done."

My body slumps as he says the words and I toss the quarterstaff to the side. He hands me a small bottle of water and I gulp it down easily. I then take off my eyeglasses to wipe away the sweat building on the bridge of my nose. Two hours of quarterstaff practice, not to mention the two hours of fist fighting practice before that with only an hour break in between has taken all of the energy out of me. I don't mind though, not today.

It is a tradition to train hard on the night before the reaping and into the dawn. We hold no quarter and often get bruises and cuts that last for weeks on end. It is to make sure I am ready in case I am reaped, a last effort to get as much information into my head as possible. Even though this training has been second nature to me since I was six, Westley always tells me that there is always more to learn.

Tonight is different, though. Come the afternoon of the reaping, I know that I will be on my way to the Capitol. I am expecting it. I glance at Westley as he tries to tidy up his Peacekeeper uniform as best as he can before going back home. My district hates me because of him. They hate that he is my father, and they are going to send me off to die because of it. My nephew, Faraday, tried to convince me that they would only send me away because they know that Westley trains me and that after our close-call with the Surket girl last year, they really want a victor. At this point, the reason doesn't matter. The dipshits have already voted me into the Games and now all I need to do is wait for my name to be called.

Westley put a hand on my back and glances at the rising sun. He wants me to win, though I don't think it is so I could come home after. "You did great, Bren. The Other Guys won't know what hit them." I smirk at the nickname. I have told him several times that they are called Careers, but he refuses to call them anything but the Other Guys. He said that he has been calling him that since he trained with his father and that is what they are to him.

"I'm worried about the axes," I tell him.

"They're wielded like a mace. They take two hands and have generally large strokes. The staff can take care of that." I shift a little and nod mainly to please him. I can feel my heart pound against my chest as my body stills.

"Do you think the Other Guys are better than me?" When I think about them, I imagine large monsters carrying battle axes and swords running at me with the might of Hercules.

"They've been training just as long as you have." He claps me on the shoulder.

"But they have real weapons." I remember how difficult it was for Westley to get a weapon to train me with and how he had tried to get a sword shipped in from District Two. When that busted, he decided a quarterstaff was enough even though he has referred to it as a weaker man's weapon.

"That's why I've taught you how to fight against all of them. Besides, you're left-handed. Few of them have trained for left-handed competitors. It'll be completely different for them." I glance at the hand he speaks of and shrug.

"I guess."

He lifts me off of the ground and leans me against him so I don't topple over. "Have some faith, Bren. You'll win the Games, I know it."

"What if I don't?" The fear itches at me.

"Then you don't." That's not what I want to hear. I know that there is no way I can get an "I love you" from Mom, but with Westley, it is always an option. One day, I wish he would say it, just so I could know that it's true. His chances, however, are running out.

He helps lead me back home in the dim morning. I know that he will be able to rest until he is needed at the reaping, but I still have to meet with Richard at the barber shop and make sure I see Morgan and Faraday and Ellie. The thought of doing all of these things in my current state makes me even more drained.

I take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. These days, my sight is blurry even with the glasses on, and I've been hoping on getting new ones before I left for the Capitol. I don't think I'll have much time now. When we reach the back door to my little house, Westley gives me a quick kiss on my forehead and tells me to rest and shower. I watch him disappear in between the dense concentration homes.

My dog, Pretty, welcomes me as I slide in through the back door. I'm glad she isn't a barker because I definitely don't want to hear Mom complaining right now. I gently touch her head which is the only part of her that still has her fur. The rest was burned by one of the dipshits in the district. I then strip off my clothes while languidly going toward our bathroom to shower.

The Capitol may have screwed over District Three after the Dark Days, but they couldn't get rid of our sewage system, so we still have showers and decent bathrooms. They aren't as lavish as the ones we make for the Capitol, but they are better than the simple bathtubs they have in District Twelve.

I absorb the water as it cools my bruised and sore skin. I allow it to wash away all of the sweat before thoroughly washing every inch of my body. When I finish, I change into a white shirt and jeans and finish off my outfit with my glasses.

Pretty waits for me outside the door as I walk back to my room. Mom still sleeps and I can hear her snoring as I pass her room to get to mine. Sliding into my room, I plop down on my bed. Before I even realize what's going on. I am asleep.

* * *

Someone is giggling, a little girl. There is a weight on my stomach as well. The giggle is familiar. "Wake up, Brenny!" Now I know who it is. My gray eyes force themselves open and I see the dirty blond locks of my niece, Ellie.

"Hi, Brenny!" she exclaims, wrapping her arms around my neck. Her giggles tickle my skin. Past her, I see my oldest nephew, Faraday, leaning against the wall with a smile that reminds me of his father.

"How'd you guys get in here?" I ask, pulling myself into a sitting position and taking Ellie with me. Faraday sits at the edge of the bed.

"I told my dad that we were going to see Grandma, but she wasn't here when we got here." I smile to myself. Mom is never home on reaping day and he knows that.

"Faraday says that I have to keep this a secret," Ellie whispers loudly into my ear.

"Is that so?" I laugh. She nods enthusiastically.

"And Morgan said that if I'm really good and don't tell anyone that she'll buy me a peppermint stick."

I can't stop the smile that forces itself onto my lips. "Morgan's here?"

Faraday smirks at me and nods. "She wanted to let you sleep, but Ellie insisted."

"Where is she?"

"Out in the kitchen," he said, inclining his head in that direction. "She was hungry."

I nod my thanks to him and slide out of bed with Pretty at my heels. I can feel my muscles on fire from last night's actions as I move, but I ignore the pain and continue toward the kitchen. She stands at the stove with a box of dried pasta in one hand while the other rests on her hip. Her lips pucker a little bit as she runs a hand through her light brown locks.

"Careful before you burn down the kitchen." She jumps at my voice then turns around to smile at me.

"That's not funny. You know it was an accident."

"Of course it was." She narrows her eyes at me before placing the box down. I take in the space between us as she wraps her arms around my waist, burying her head in my chest. I cling to her as I feel her shoulders droop. She smells sweet and warm. I will miss this scent more than anything.

"Today's the day," she mutters into my shirt. She rests her chin on my chest to look into my grey eyes. "Are you afraid?"

I swallow. "No." Her eyes narrow.

"Don't lie to me."

"Come this afternoon it won't matter."

"Don't say that," she says placing her forehead against my chest. I rub her back to try to calm her down. "Maybe we'll get lucky," she adds.

"Luck has never been my friend." She pushes away from me and opens her mouth to say something when Ellie skips to us and taps Morgan's arm.

"Morgan, I'm hungry." She looks at Ellie then begins to move. Before she has a chance to touch the stove, I grab her wrist and move her to the side.

"I'll make something for you," I tell my niece. "What do you want?"

Before Ellie can reply, Faraday goes to us. "I'll do it. You stay with Morgan."

I want to protest against him, but he is already taking things out of the cupboards and begins to make a small pot of soup. "Thanks, kid." He nods at me and continues his work.

Morgan and I sit at the table with Ellie on my lap. We try not to talk about the Games and my impending doom. With Ellie here, it's an easy thing to do. Pretty climbs into Morgan's lap and rests her head on the table while Ellie squeals every time she licks her.

Ellie looks like her father which I'm glad for. Her mother, Trix, is my half-sister and the youngest before I came along and stole her thunder. She hates me for that as well as because I am the product of Mom's "unfaithfulness," although her father was already dead when Mom slept with Westley. I'm glad that Ellie is practically glued to Faraday's hip and that she doesn't listen to Trix's verbal abuse toward me. I don't know what I would do without her smiling face always directed toward me.

Faraday is different. He looks exactly like his father, Vinny, who is my eldest brother. Everything about him screams the domineering older brother and "man" of the family. The main difference between the two is that Faraday can see reason where as Vinny's pride blinds him to everything. For him, I am the greatest blemish on our family name. It also helps that Faraday and I are only two years apart from each other.

He makes us chicken soup and we all have a good-sized helping. When Ellie proclaims that she's full, I finish off her food and laugh as Morgan teases Faraday about having a crush on a girl in his class. He blushes and claims that there is no way he would ever date her. As he said that, he kept glancing at me. He's afraid to ask her because he knows that she would say no. Because everyone knows how close Faraday and I are and no one wants to risk getting me pissed. That is except the bullies. Perhaps when I go to the Games, he will get the guts to ask her. I hope so.

Ellie leans against me and looks up. "Brenny, will you take me to play at the junk pile tomorrow?" My voice catches in my throat and I look to Faraday for help. However, it is Morgan who gathers her wits first.

"Bren will have something very important to do tomorrow so he can't. Another time, though."

"You promise, Brenny?" I meet her wide brown eyes and swallow. Broken promises in the single thing that I hate more than the dipshits in my district. I can't lie to her about this even if I wanted to.

I clear my throat and place her on the floor to stand up. "I think it's time for us to go." She nods then clings to my leg as if she knew that this was probably the last time we would be seeing each other since I know that Trix won't let her see me after I'm reaped.

Faraday gives me a big hug then takes Ellie into his arms. He'll find a way to see me after I'm reaped, but knowing that this is one of the last times I will probably see him makes me cling to him a little tighter. He nods at me then smiles. "I'll see you later, Bren."

Morgan and I hold hands as we walk to the main square. I try to keep my head up as I watch people walk around with more smiles than normal on the reaping day. There is no fear for many children, especially the ones that are well liked. It is the ones like me that are squirming around in anxiety. Every smile they give makes me sick to my stomach and if Morgan wasn't with me, I would want to hurt them.

Klara comes toward us with a warm smile and skip in her step. She was the first person outside of my family that I considered my friend. I think it is her bubbly attitude that likes to befriend everyone that gave her the power to actually get to know me. That and the fact that I have helped her in the factory for years. Before I met Morgan, Klara was the one I saw myself with. She comes to a halt at my side and links arms with me.

"I'm sure you'll be okay," she says. Morgan and I raise an eyebrow at her. "At the reaping today," she clarifies. "Rumor has it that majority of the district voted for Mitchell because he's dying in a couple of days. They were hoping he'd actually die before the Games even started so they could really piss off the Capitol."

"That sounds like something we'd do," Morgan replies with a smirk. I don't let the hope seep through. I know better than to hope for stuff like that. I let Morgan think what she wants though. Who knows, maybe my district's rebellious nature will win over their desire to get rid of me.

An idea hits me. "Hey, Morgan, I have to meet with Richard before the reaping."

"Yeah, okay." She goes onto her tiptoes and gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek. Then she goes to one of the people off in the corner that still talk to her despite the fact that she's dating me.

Klara begins to walk away as well, but I grab onto her elbow. "Wait, Klara." She turns around to face me. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure," she says with a shrug, "anything."

I purse my lips then dig into my pocket to pull out the contents of my last paycheck. It was at least one hundred, but it's possible that it's more. I hold out the money to her. "Go on and put a bet on my name and if I win, give Morgan the money."

"Brennadon," she whispers, looking at the wad of money in my hand. Her eyes slowly move to my face and I take in her large brown eyes. "I told you they picked Mitchell."

"I don't believe in rumors." I shrug. I push the money toward her. "Can you please just do it?"

"Why?"

I close my eyes and try to find words for what I want to do. It's almost like trying to describe an emotion or train of thought. "I want something good to come out of this if it happens. At least this way I can provide for Morgan even when I'm gone."

Slowly, carefully, she takes the money from me and holds onto my hand for a moment. She meets my eyes with a warm smile and gives my hand a squeeze. Then, she releases me and goes to where the bets are placed. With a deep breath, I walk toward the barber shop.

Richard stands on the steps of the barber shop, smoothing down his annual reaping haircut. A cigarette bud pokes out of the corner of his mouth, smoke puffing out of his lips. Eventually, he turns toward me and flashes his signature nod of greeting. "How's things on the ground, kiddo?"

"About as lovely as they always are," I mutter, glancing at the glares of the people passing by. They swear as if I was some kind of rapist or something.

He takes out his cigarette and stares at the burning embers. "Heard you got in a fight the day 'fore the vote."

I swallow and glance at the floor, touching the scar on my arm from that particular fight. "You heard right." I try to remember why I punched that dipshit in the first place, but I know it had something to do with him calling Morgan a bad name.

Richard flicks off the ash from his cigarette then puts it to his mouth again. "I guess yah deserve to get reaped for doin' a stupid move like that."

"It wasn't my fault," I whisper.

"Yah think anyone cares?" Sighing, he begins to walk toward the square, and I follow behind with my tail in between my legs. "Maybe they don't hate yah as much as yah think."

"Yeah, and maybe Westley isn't my real father." He gives me a weak glare.

"No need fer yah to give me yer sarcasm. Besides, yah don' know what peoples think."

"I just have a good feeling."

"Well, cheers to yah then."

The center opens up and all of the citizens lurk around to find a place to go. My voice catches in my throat and I can feel myself tremble as I realize within the next few moments I will either be on my way to the Capitol or still living my horrible life. Both are extremely pitiful.

Richard pats me on the back then lets me walk to where I am supposed to go. Everyone avoids me like they always do, though I catch the gaze of Albaer. The fifteen-year-old would never admit it, but he does like me, or at least my company. During work, he laughs with me enough, but my reputation keeps him away in the open. I don't blame him for doing this but it would be nice for him to at least say hi today.

I stand by myself and wait for the ceremony to go by. Our creepy escort—who I have always just called Doll Girl because that's what she looks like—talks about the normal stuff that they talk about at the reaping. I never paid much attention to that because it's really boring. Our mentors are Gage and Cable who have done little over the years to get us a victor. Even Jules Surket last year got virtually no help from them. When I'm reaped, all I will have are Westley's wise words.

I tap my finger against my pants and wait for Doll Girl to be done with it. The guy next to me glares at me. I meet his gaze, daring him to do something. He looks scrawnier than I do, except he probably has no strength behind him, at least not the kind I have. He takes a step away from me and I allow a smirk to come to my face. I may not like being hated, but being feared is another thing entirely. At least when I'm feared no one tries to push my buttons.

Doll Girl finally calls the name of the girl that they voted in. Her name is Maeve Morghal. Apparently, she can see how people die. Westley told me that she's a fraud and frankly I believe him. There is no scientific way to explain it after all. Either way, she was beginning to annoy the district so they sent her in.

Now it's the boys. Doll Girl opens the envelope with the name of the boy tribute painstakingly slow and I nearly punch someone just so she could hurry. She leans into the microphone and says in her shrill voice, "Brennadon Rydik."

I close my eyes and nod. I knew it. Seventeen years of being hated by everyone I know almost guaranteed it. When I open my eyes, I walk past the others, not looking at any of them. They're all dipshits anyway. I walk up the stage and Doll Girl puts a hand on my chest.

"My, my, you're a handsome boy." I push her hand away and glare at her. She pretends not to notice.

After announcing us as the tributes of the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, I turn to Maeve and shake her hand. She looks right at me. I don't need her false gift to tell me how I'm going to die.

We're shuffled to the place where we give our final goodbyes and I wait patiently in a chair. I already gave my goodbyes to everyone that matters.

I stand as Mom comes in and gives me a hug. "Oh, my handsome boy. How will I ever go on without you?" I rub her back and sigh.

"You'll do fine and you know it." Her wiry white hair shakes from side to side.

"No. I won't be able to handle losing you. You're my favorite son." It's a lie, I know it is, because Vinny will always be her favorite. But I have waited my whole life for her to say this and if she wants to tell me this to make me feel better when I die, then I'll let her.

"I'll miss you Mom."

She pulls out a pair of black square glasses and hands them to me. "Vector wanted me to give them to you last week, but I forgot."

Vector is the only one of my half-siblings that tolerates me. He tries his hardest to hate no one and I think that is the only reason why he manages to do what he does. Being my eye doctor, he is also the only one I see on a somewhat regular basis.

"Tell him I said thanks," I say putting them on. The difference between the two is immediately evident. There's not a single blur through these lenses.

She leaves with a nod before the Peacekeeper goes to get her. I guess she doesn't care enough to stay longer than she has to. I settle back down in my chair to gather myself together.

Morgan comes in next, her warm brown eyes red and puffy. I open my arms for her as she jumps into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck. "It's not fair!" she cries. "You don't deserve this. It's just not fair."

I cling to her, trying to engrave the feeling of her against me before I go. I press my nose to her hair and take in her warm, sweet scent. She'll be the main reason for me to fight. I don't care about the dipshits getting extra food and love from the Capitol or my mother getting a fancy house or even making Westley proud. I want to come back for her, that way no one could ever say I don't love her or vise versa.

"I love you Brennadon," she says. I hold those words in my hand and cling to them. This isn't the first time she has said them to me, but this is the first time where I can almost feel the truth behind it. It isn't simply something that she said to make me smile.

"And I love you too, more than you know." Her sobs grow louder and she presses into me harder. I don't know how long we simply sit there, holding each other, before the Peacekeeper comes in to take her away. We share a brief, but lingering kiss as they lead her out the door. I stand with her and our eyes never leave each other.

Faraday's head is up when he comes in and his eyes are surprisingly dry. He swallows every few minutes, but he doesn't let his tears fall. I gently bring him into a hug and he chokes back a sob. "I have to be the man now, huh?"

"Don't worry, kid," I say. "You are a bigger man than I'll ever be."

"I don't know how that's possible Bren." We laugh a little and he moves to sit in the chair across from me. We settle down in our seats and I look into his eyes.

"I need a favor from you."

"Anything, Bren."

"If I die in the Games, I want you to make sure that Morgan moves on." He looks at the floor and wrings his hands together. "She deserves happiness after I die, even if it is in the arms of another guy."

He's quiet for a while and he keeps his eyes downcast. "She won't like it," he finally whispers.

"I don't care. I just want to know that she won't be an old maid for the rest of her life."

He nods several times. "I'll do it—" his eyes move up to meet mine "—if you promise me that you'll try your very hardest to come back."

Realistically, I know I should say no. How am I supposed to try to get back if the Gamemakers have me pinned against a wall or something? But in my heart, I also know that I am already going to do everything to get back. Eventually, I nod at him.

"Okay." He stands up and I stand with him. He keeps his eyes on me and holds out his hand. I glance at it for a while then move in for the handshake. Instead, he pulls me to him and gives me a warm bear hug. "I love you Bren." I swear I can feel his tears on my shirt. Two "I love you"s in one day. If I wasn't about to die then I would probably be crying.

As Richard takes Faraday's place, it is clear that I won't be having some huge heartfelt moment where the two of us cry and hug and such. He sits down in the largest chair and plays with all of the nice stuff on the table. "Nice job, killer," he says as he plays with the objects. "Now who's gonna take my train after I die?"

I laugh a little and shrug. "Beats me. I guess you need to hold auditions."

"I'll just give it to Faraday." He places a snow globe that he was holding back onto the table then fishes a small brown bag out of his pocket. "Here," he says tossing it to me.

I open the bag and see a wooden oval with a mouthpiece and eight holes in it. It's smooth to my touch and I notice the threaded chain that goes through the mouthpiece. "I don't know what this is."

"It's an ocarina." I nod my head as if I know what the hell an ocarina is.

"Which is?"

"Some pipe thing. I like playin' it when I'm bored on my train." I blow into the mouth piece and play with the tune by covering some of the holes. I'm horrible at it."

"I'm sure a whistle won't be helping me in the Games," I say taking it away from my lips.

"Look underneath."

On the other side there is a single hole, but there are also several names etched into the wood. I see Faraday's, Klara's, even Ellie's weak hand writing. Everyone I know and love signed their name, even Albaer. I see Westley's name along the rounded edge with a small quote: "Your left hand is an advantage. Use it." I look around more and finally I see Morgan's name neatly placed right on the mouthpiece. "She insisted on puttin' 'er name there," Richard says. "Said that if you used it, yer lips would be on 'er name. Kinda weird if you ask me."

I smile to myself and put the chain over my head. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"A lot figger." He stands up and places a strong hand on my shoulder. "Good luck, kiddo. You'll be needin' it."

As he begins to walk out, I remember something. "Wait." He turns around and catches my eye. "You'll take Pretty won't you? I just know Mom will throw her out the first chance she gets."

He gives me a toothy grin. "Don't know why you even had to ask."

I take a deep breath and admire the names on the ocarina. I love them for doing this. Now I will have a piece of them with me as I go on.

I hardly notice Westley come in as his light footfalls hardly make a sound on the hardwood panels. He kneels in front of me and takes one of my hands, drawing my attention to him. "You don't know how proud of you I am."

"Thanks Dad," I mutter.

"I'm serious, Brennadon. You've come a long way since being my bastard son." My eyes dart away and I glare at the floor. He of all people should know that bastard is the easiest trigger for my anger. "I don't mean it like that." He touches my shoulder lightly as if to try to take away some of my anger. "You're going to be the only child I'll ever have and you should know that I couldn't ask for a better kid."

"Thanks," I say through gritted teeth. I know that he's really just happy that a boy from his family tree will be in the Hunger Games. He'll call his friends back in District Two to brag about me. It's clear that I have always only been a doll to him so that he could dress me up and make me what he wants me to be. He never cared for me, he was just protecting his merchandise. He's—

"I love you, Brennadon." My eyes jump to him, silencing my hectic thoughts. He said it. He said those words that I have always wanted to hear from him. I wrap my arms around him and I feel like a little boy again, running to Westley after every fight so he could make me laugh or tell me that I wasn't just a mistake. He presses a warm kiss onto my temple and hugs me back. "Go make us proud, son."

I nod as the Peacekeeper lets him know that I have to go. He clasps me on my shoulder one last time before leaving through the door.

I may be the bastard son of a Peacekeeper and a widow. I may have a temper problem and get into a lot of fights. I may be everything that my district calls me, but for the first time in my life I don't care. For the first time in my life, their hurtful words and genuine hate is not enough to bring me down. And that's all because for the first time in my life, I feel completely and genuinely loved.

* * *

**Maeve Morghal of District 3 **

**By Falconflight**

* * *

_"A dying man needs to die,_  
_as a sleepy man needs to sleep, _  
_and there comes a time when it is wrong, _  
_as well as useless, _  
_to resist."_

—Steward Alsop

* * *

Sunlight scatters across the room as I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, which is chipped in one corner, but otherwise in good condition. After examining my Reapings dress (a full-length black gown with a cobalt blue sash to bring out my eyes), I quickly stride over to the window and pull the dark, heavy, black curtains across it, cutting off the natural light and leaving my room in darkness. I allow myself to smile slightly; I have always preferred dark to light and solitude to company. I have no need for company when I have the voices of the dead; they may not visit me often, but they are the closest thing to "friends" I will ever need. Friends is in quotation marks because I don't need any of those either; all I need is my job as Death's Messenger.

My train of thought is interrupted by a knock on the door. I turn around and stare at the door; I briefly contemplate ignoring the knock and letting Mother find her own way into my room. Our relationship is not the strongest one, mostly because I want nothing to do with my family members and Mother, while she claims she loves us equally, misses Esther too much to really pay attention to me. Still, she will find a way in here eventually, so I suppose there is no point in delaying the inevitable. I walk as briskly as the dress will allow towards the door of my bedroom and open it.

Mother stands in front of me with one hand on her hip; her face is pulled into an expression that says 'sometimes, I wonder why I let you in the house'. "Good; you're dressed. Now come downstairs quickly so you can get some breakfast."

"The Reapings aren't for another hour," I remind her, following Mother anyway.

"Yes, but your father and I need to go to work beforehand, so you'll be staying with the Ohms and going to the Reapings with their sons," Mother explains before shoving an apple into my hands. "We need to get you there quickly, so eat this while I make you some toast."

I frown slightly; this isn't a breakfast for someone who can actually afford food. My parents, being the managers of the only electronics company (the entire company is controlled by some people from the Capitol, and they keep a tight monopoly on the business), are relatively wealthy compared to the rest of the District. We're rich by District 3 standards, though we have nothing compared to District 1 or the Capitol. The point is that I have the money to have a much larger breakfast than the one Mother is preparing for me, so why shouldn't I get it?

I keep all of these thoughts to myself; I'm not too keen on expressing my inner thoughts and emotions with others. Most of the time, I try to keep my mind blank and my emotions neutral; I've found that these kinds of things interfere with messages, and this interference usually leads to false predictions. Almost unconsciously, I grab the piece of buttered toast Mother has handed me and toss the apple core (which I have been mechanically munching on this entire time) into the trash can. I follow Mother out of the house in a daze, focusing on nothing but the silence and the paved road beneath my feet.

"_Maeve!"_

I hear a voice which has not been heard in two weeks. Jet Couplets, my neighbor, who died two weeks ago from a machinery malfunction on the same day as the voting. He came to me during the voting (after his death, obviously) and told me that it was my job as Death's Messenger to go into the Arena; that's why I voted for myself.

"Hello," I whisper. I hope that Mother doesn't notice me talking to Jet; she'll think I'm talking to myself. Thankfully, she doesn't hear me.

"_Diode Ohm is going to die soon."_

I pause to process this information. Diode is the youngest Ohm son past Rom and Ram, the twins, and Flash, who has been in jail for the past two months, if that's any indication to what kind of family I will be accompanying to the Reapings. I will have a chance to inform Diode of his approaching death when we reach their house, though it may be pointless. He's not going to believe me; no one ever does.

"We're here," Mother announces, stopping in front of a large and heavy looking door.

"Oh, joy," I murmur sarcastically.

"Please, try not to get into a fight with them this time," Mother requests before ringing the doorbell.

"I never start the fights," I reply quietly.

We wait a long time for the door to open. When it finally does, we are greeted by Flash Ohm, who has been let out of jail for today to go to the Reapings. His eyes are the same metallic copper color as the rest of his family, which is sort of their trademark. He instantly notices me, and his copper eyes narrow. "Oh. You're here."

"Yes, and so are you. Last time I checked, you were in jail." Flash is well-known for being the proudest Ohm son, and when that pride is damaged… well, that's how he ended up in jail.

"Maeve, what part of 'try not to get into a fight' did you not understand?" Mother demands.

"It was an honest question, though I suppose it makes sense. He needs to be there when Diode gets reaped, after all." Diode will get reaped; that has to be how he dies.

Flash's glare hardens. "Who told you my brother was going to be reaped?"

"You know who," I reply.

"Your little voices?" he asks. I nod, and he snickers. "You're shitting me, right? Everyone knows your predictions are bull—"

"Don't say it," I interrupt, gritting my teeth.

"—shit," Flash finishes, smirking slightly. He turns to Mother. "Don't worry about her; we'll take good care of her."

"That's fantastic!" Mother exclaims, almost oblivious to the conversation we just had. She kisses me on the cheek before turning around and walking briskly back towards the house.

"Get in here quickly," Flash commands once Mother has disappeared.

"Afraid to be seen with me?" I ask, stepping inside.

"Yes, actually." Flash closes the door behind me. "Rumor has it that over half the district voted you into the Games."

"Good." I had to get voted in; it's my job.

"Good?" he echoes. "How is going into the Hunger Games good? You'd die in the Bloodbath for sure."

"I have Death on my side," I reply dismissively.

"Oh for the love of –" Flash stops, closes his eyes, and exhales loudly. "You know what, never mind. IF you want to believe that you're Death's Slave—"

"Messenger," I interrupt again, clenching my jaw. Why do they never believe me?

"Whatever. If you want to believe that you're Death's Messenger and that it's your destiny to tell people they're going to die, so be it. Just keep me and my brothers out of it." To emphasize his point, Flash shoves me before stomping up the stairs to the upper level of his house.

I glare at him as he leaves. I'll show him one day; I'll show all of them. I'm sort of glad I'm going to the Hunger Games; I'll get a chance to prove my gift to Panem. Maybe when I win, the Capitol will promote my gift and people will pay to learn their fate.

_If I win, _I amend. There's a chance that the voices will tell me that I have to die, and I will be okay with that. I will do anything to serve Death.

I head footsteps and look up; Diode Ohm is standing on the staircase, looking down on me. "Hello, Messenger."

He's always called me that; it's a mocking and disdainful name. "You're going to be reaped."

Diode's eyes scrunch slightly as he begins to descend the stairs. "And what are you basing that claim on?"

"A little birdie told me," I reply.

"So you're hearing things again?" he asks. "Maybe yyou should have your head checked."

"My head is fine," I snap.

"Sure it is." Diode stands in front of me; he's a couple years younger than me but quite a few inches taller, which allows him to look down on me. He likes being able to do that.

"Where are your brothers?" I ask, changing the subject. Not that I really care. I don't care, and making conversation is very low on my list of things I want to do, but I might as well, if not to get away from the topic of my "insanity". That's in quotation marks because I am perfectly normal.

"Rom and Ram are fighting upstairs," he replies. "Some girl asked on of them out, and neither of them can remember who she asked."

"It's not likely it would make a difference; few can tell them apart." It's true; Rom and Ram look exactly alike with the major difference being a scar on Rom's face. He usually covers it up with makeup, and they take advantage of their similarities to mess with the pretty girls of District 3.

Diode nods. "You're right- for once. I think Rom is wearing his blush today too, which makes it even harder." Flash, Ram and Diode make fun of Rom for wearing makeup, as most brothers would.

"Are you implying that I'm not usually right?" I remand. He probably meant nothing by it, but he may have been insulting me, and it's going to bother me until I find out.

"Yeah. You're almost never right." Diode pauses and adds, "Like where you said I'm going to be reaped."

"I'm not wrong," I warn. "We're going to be the chosen tributes for District 3."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were chosen, but me?" Diode shakes his head. "Maybe a couple people voted for me, but the word in the pub is that a bastard boy called Brennadon is going to be chosen. Some of the Peacekeepers have put a large wager on him getting voted."

The pub is District 3's closest thing to a Capitol bar, which is a place for drinking, parties, gossip, and gambling. We have all of these things, except they are much less expensive and fancy. Diode is several years underage, but when your parents have enough clout, you can get service anywhere. The pub is best known for the huge betting pool set up for the Hunger Games; if the tribute you bet money on dies, your money goes to a larger pool that consists of all the money people have lost. At the end, that pool of money is split between the people who betted on the winner. Apparently, this year, they're betting on who will get voted into the Games.

"Has anyone bet money on me?" I ask curiously.

"You're the number one girl; I'm sure you're thrilled," Diode replies sarcastically.

"Not thrilled, but mildly content," I correct. I'm going to be chosen; this is good.

"Hey! If you two are done flirting, we need to start heading towards the square!"

Diode and I turn to see Rom and Ram; one of the them is sporting a black eye and the other a bloody nose. Other than their new injuries, the two are identical. Same sandy-blonde hair, same mischievous copper eyes, same serpent-like smile.

"We weren't flirting," Diode snaps. "Mom is never going to let you go to the Reapings like that."

"Does it look like we care?" the one with a black eye asks. "I get the girl, so I don't give a fuck about what Mom thinks."

"This is our last Reapings," the bloody-nose twin continues. "As soon as we turn 19, we're outta here."

"You and you're girlfriend can have the house to yourself," black-eye finishes.

"'Cept for Flash," bloody-nose adds.

"She's not my girlfriend," Diode hisses. "I don't even want her here."

"I feel so welcome," I interrupt sarcastically.

"It's the truth," Diode reminds me. "I don't want you here; I didn't invite you here. Mom did, and Mom is going to kick our asses if we don't get going." Diode strides to the door and holds it open. "Ladies first."

"I told you he likes her," black-eye whispers "discretely" to bloody-nose. I ignore them and walk outside.

"You too, Rom," Diode adds. "You wear makeup, and that makes you a lady."

Black-eye glares at his brother through his bruise while Ram and Diode laugh. "Shut up unless you want a bloody nose too."

"Relax, Rom." The final Ohm son finally reappears from his room and ruffles his younger brother's hair. "It was a joke."

Rom still looks very pissed, though, and Flash mocking the situation doesn't help at all. "Fuck all of you." He angrily stomps out the door and joins me outside.

It's times like this when I'm glad that my only sibling was a sister and that we never had much of a relationship, positive or negative. Chaos is a constant in the Ohm household, or in any household with male siblings. I decide to remain silent on the way to the square and let the boys squabble to their hearts' content; none of it concerns me, so I don't need to pay attention to it. Instead, I focus on clearing my mind so I can clearly receive any messages that come through. None do, though, and we arrive at the square without any fights breaking out. Flash leaves to join the crowd of those too old or too young to be reaped while Rom, Ram, Diode and I check in.

While we wait in line, I notice Diode staring at me. "Yes?"

"How can you be so calm?" he demands at last. "You're going to be voted for sure, and you're just acting like it's nothing!"

"Why do you care?" I shoot back. No one's ever cares what I do as long as I don't tell them that they're going to die.

"I don't," Diode snaps. "You can die for all I care. I just wish I could understand you a bit more."

No one has ever been able to understand me; the only ones who know what it's like are the voices who visit me. "Maybe you'll learn when we go to the Games together."

Diode shakes his head. "I'm not going to be voted."

"Just keep telling yourself that." Before Diode can retort, we reach the check-in desk, and we are both quiet as they take the blood sample. After six years of this, it barely hurts any more. Diode, on the other hand, winces in pain and sucks on his finger when it's done. "I'll see you on stage," I tell him before we're herded into separate sections.

Not long after I arrive in the seventeen year-old girls section, the ceremony begins. Our escort practically skips to the stage; having a tribute make it to the final two last year has put a big boost in her energy, apparently, because she is reading even faster than usual. Her almost glass-like eyes glitter as she drags on the process, making it sound a lot more suspenseful and dramatic than it actually is.

_I'll have to get used to her, _I decide. _After all, she is my escort, and I'll be spending a lot of time with her._

Finally, someone hands her an envelope that has 'District 3 Female' written on it in glittering gold ink. "Maeve Morghal," she calls.

I resist the urge to smile; I'm going to the Hunger Games. _Yes. _As I walk up the stage, trying to keep a blank face, I can't help but think that this is it. This is my destiny. Going to the Hunger Games is the moment that all of my work as Death's Messenger has led up to.

The same person hurries over after retrieving the envelope with the boy's name in it. She opens it slowly, grinning teasingly at the audience. After what seems like an eternity of suspense, she pulls a slip of paper from the envelope and reads into the microphone, "Brennadon Rydik."

There is no surprise on the boy's face as he walks towards the stage. I am surprised, however. I frown and search the crowd for Diode, who was supposed to be reaped. I find him, and he is smiling in a way that says, 'I told you so'.

"My, my you're a handsome boy." The sound of our escort's shrill voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn and see her creamy white hand on Brennadon's chest, which he shoves away. Ignoring him, she turns back to the crowd and says, "Ladies and gentleman, let me introduce to you your tributes for the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games and first Quarter Quell! Maeve Morghal and Brennadon Rydik!" There is applause, but only because many of these people will be glad to see us leave; I notice that Diode is not among the large group of people clapping.

Our escort coaxes us to shake hands, and I turn and stare at Brennadon. He is my competition, after all. He wears glasses, which are an obvious disadvantage if they are broken or stolen in the Arena. He's taller than me and a bit scrawny, but he obviously has strength, and the void expression his face tells me that he will be fine with killing people.

_So will I, _I think as I shake his hand.

After we shake hands, we are herded towards theJusticeBuilding. I begin to think about what I know about Brennadon. If I recall correctly, he's infamous for being the bastard child of a Peacekeeper and a poor woman. His connection with his father is a strong one, which gives him an obvious advantage. His father could probably bribe the mentors to pay special attention to Brennadon, though it probably won't make much difference, given how helpless the mentors were last year.

When I reach the room where I will say my goodbyes, my first visitor is not a living one. _"Brennadon Rydik is going to die."_

I hear Jet's voice, and I can't help but scowl. "You told me that Diode was going to die."

"_Dying doesn't necessarily involve being reaped," _Jet reminds me.

I suppose he has a good point. "So how will Diode die?"

"_Look out the window."_

I frown slightly and walk over to the window at the far corner of the room. It has a perfect view of the main road, which connects the square to theJusticeBuilding. I can clearly see Diode on one side of the road; he seems to be arguing with Flash, who is blocking his path to the main road. Eventually, Diode shoves Flash away and blindly stomps across the road. A car, which is probably here to drive Brennadon and I to the train station, zips down the road and hits him at full speed. I gasp audibly as Diode flies backwards, blood pouring from his stomach. Flash runs forward and kneels next to Diode, and the driver gets out and hurries over.

I turn away from the window, and I find myself unable to look at the gruesome and tragic scene anymore. I'm not sure why; I've never had a problem with death before. I had barely blinked when my sister died; why should I be upset over the death of a guy who hates me?

"_You were right."_

I hear a voice that's not Jet's. _Diode._

"_Not about the being reaped thing, but about me dying. I should have paid more attention to your warnings."_

"At least someone thinks so," I mutter. I am about to ask Diode who else is going to die in the Hunger Games, but the door opens and Mother and Father walk in.

"This is your fault," Mother announces. "If you didn't prance around telling people they were going to die, you wouldn't be going to the Hunger Games."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes; Mother is upset that I'm leaving, and this is how she's dealing with her sadness. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is a bad thing!" she exclaims. "You're going to die!"

Why do they never understand? None of them ever understand. "My death is a small price to pay for fulfilling my duty as Death's Messenger," I explain.

Mother glares at me. "You don't understand how infuriating you are sometimes!" With that, she turns away and angrily walks away, slamming the door behind her.

Father is slightly less useless. He hands me a notepad and a pen. "I thought you might like to make a list like you usually do."

Since I became Death's Messenger, I've always made a list of the tributes in the Hunger Games so when the voices told me they were going to die I could mark it. My predictions are almost always accurate for the Hunger Games; they weren't for last year, though, and that was strange. Still, with the notepad and pen, I can make a list of the tributes and some information on them so when the voices tell me that someone has to die or that I have to kill someone, I will have as much information as possible. After Father leaves, I uncap the pen and begin writing.

_Brennadon Rydik—District 3 Male, 17, tall, has freckles, glasses, gray eyes, brown hair, bastard son of a Peacekeeper and a poor widow, looks like he's trained, physically fit_

I stop and look over my description. It seems relatively accurate, so I put the cap back on the pen and wait patiently for the Peacekeepers to come take me to the car. They do eventually, and Brennadon and I walk in silence. I notice that it is not his father who is taking us to the car, which makes sense. Our escort is waiting for us next to the car that hit Diode; it hasn't moved, though the blood has been cleaned off. Diode's body hasn't moved either; the entire Ohm family is huddled around it while waiting for someone to take it to the morgue.

Flash notices me as I try to climb into the car without drawing his attention. His copper eyes are full of fury as he glares at me. "This is your fault," he snarls. "He died trying to say good bye to you."

"Boy, if you wanted to talk to the chosen tribute, you should have visited her during the hour for good byes," our escort snaps, trying to shove me into the car.

"I hope you die," Flash hisses before spitting at me.

I want to ask Flash what he meant when he said Diode wanted to say good bye to me, but our escort successfully forces me into the car, slams the door with a huff, and climbs into the passenger seat.

"Buckle your seatbelts," our escort commands. "You're not allowed to die on me; Jules tried to do that last year, but my lecture straightened her out."

"Did you really want to say good bye to me?" I ask quietly.

"_Yeah, but it doesn't matter now," _Diode replies dismissively. _"What matters now is that I'm dead and that I can help you win this thing."_

"So I'm going to win?" I press.

"_Yeah. Death told me that all the other tributes are going to die. Besides, you're Death's only messenger; he can't have you dying any time soon."_

I do smile this time. I'm going to win the Hunger Games; I'm sure of it.


	5. District Four: Lady and the Tramp

**Sorry this is a little on the later side tonight. I'm still struggling hard with this concussion. I had some numb feelings and stuff in my arm—everything is okay but I may have to go again to get it checked out. So responses might be a little slow... And sorry for the corny title. XD **

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******Con 'Rossencourte' of District 4 (Age 17)**

******By packman23**

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_"Better than a thousand hollow words is one that brings peace." _

—Buddha

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**packman23's A/N:**

**And I'm back! I'd like to thank everyone, once again, for this opportunity to write for the second in the series of the 24 authors. I wanted to try a different tribute this time, one who's less mental, so see what you think. You might even like him.**

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People say that the Districts are horrible places to live, especially if you're below the age of eighteen. People say that District kids live miserable lives surrounded by grit and dirt and dust, rats and roaches. People say that District kids never have any food and that they spend their lives scavenging what they can get from the Capitol and working themselves to an early grave in disgusting work houses and factories, doing stuff like scraping the bark off of trees so the Capitol don't have to do it themselves.

Quite frankly, I think those people are idiots who ain't ever been to District Four. I mean, sure we ain't sitting pretty on piles of money like those multicolored wusses up in the Capitol, but we're far from just some backwater District drowning in our own filth. Things are pretty clean down here, what with the sea being a great place to bathe if you can't afford a bath, which many people can't, and trade is pretty good down here if I do say so myself. There's always cheap food to be found if you know the right place and carry a little money with you, and the Peacekeepers aren't that tough down here, but that's mostly because we never try to rebel, so the Capitol sends down the reject Peacekeepers who are either too soft or too useless to control the more unruly Districts like Seven, Eleven or Twelve. Truth be told, life isn't at all bad for the kids of District Four. Not for me, at least. I don't know, maybe I'm just lucky.

I rise slowly from my mattress in the corner of the cellar and stretch, heaving a yawn. I pull myself to my feet, but come to a halt as head slams painfully into the hard oak counter that, for some reason, is directly above my head. I grit my teeth, placing a hand on the side of the counter and steering myself around it as I stand to my feet. Man, am I sore.

I knew I shouldn't have slept in my work clothes last night, it always messes them up. I guess I was just too tired to change before hitting the proverbial hay.

Pulling off my shirt, I groan again, and inspect the damage. At least six, nearly identical, circular indents cover my chest, clearly marking the places where my buttons have dug into me while I slept, and I wince as I gingerly run my fingers across one of them. I guess I'll just have to cope with bedsores. It's not like they're anyone's fault but my own.

More pressing is the question of whether or not the merchandise is OK. I turn my shirt around again and flip open one of my pockets, revealing several watches and a battered metal flask. I take the items out one at a time and shake them, checking that all the watches still work and that there are no loose parts. It would be a rookie error to overlook something like that. I unscrew the top of flask and sniff the contents. It still reeks, just like it always does, but whatever's in there seems to be just fine. Good, The Doc would kill me if I spilled even a drop of this stuff.

Well, those idiots did get one thing right. I guess I am a scavenger, in a way. Not in the way they think I am, of course. I don't go out and pick the streets for scraps of food or clothes or anything. God knows I'm not going back to doing that, not if I live to be seven hundred!

No, I'm not some petty thief or criminal. I'm a business man. A trained, respectable professional. A scavenger by vocation, if you will. People come to The Doc with things they don't want and, for a moderate fee, we find people who want them. Sure, sometimes people don't know they want to pay for the stuff before we come along and tell them they do, but that's not illegal or anything, that's just good business.

I chuckle to myself as I pull my many pocketed shirt back on, gripping a few more items and stuffing them into my pockets as I do so. It's good to know my market, and I've learned that it's always better to have more merchandise on my person, especially on a big celebration like Reaping Day. People are always ready to spend more on special occasions even when they normally know it's not worth it.

Hey, I'm not complaining!

Once my shirt is back on and all straightened out, I swagger over to the opposite end of the basement to take a look at myself in the dusty old mirror that leans up against the wall.

"Lookin' good, handsome!" I tell myself, forcing a grin, "Ah reckon you gotta good chance today. Gonna go to the Games, boy." I have to say, I sound pretty convincing, my sales voice is getting good. I almost manage to convince myself as I stare straight at my reflection, a warm smile etched on my face.

Accent could do with a bit of work, if I'm honest. It makes me sound like some uneducated yokel, and people don't trust yokels. People trust doctors. That's why everyone trusts The Doc, after all.

I turn my face one way and then the other, inspecting myself. Ears are still just as pointy, nose still just as arched. I could do with a shave but, all in all, I am a pretty good-looking guy. Only real problem's the eyes. Still one blue, one brown, just like they were yesterday.

It is my everlasting shame that my parents cursed me with mismatched eyes, a fact I would be willing to forgive, if only my parents had ever showed up to apologize to me for the slight, but alas, my parents had to be no-shows, which is just one of the reasons I have for detesting them.

I sweep my limp hair across my face, covering my brown eye completely, and pull my fedora over my head. I throw myself a little wink with my remaining eye, just to lighten my mood. It doesn't work, I just look like I'm blinking. I shake my head slowly, before pulling on my coat and beginning the climb up to the house above me. Thinking better of it just before I reach the door, I turn back and step over to the counter above my mattress. I scoop up a flat, battered coin that lies, in pride of place, on the counter and give it a playful little flip. Like I could possibly leave the house without this baby! The coin's really special to me. It's kind of a lucky charm, and over the years, I've managed to convince myself that as long as I give my coin a toss every morning, I'll always have good luck. It seems appropriate that I have it with me today. After all, I think as I climb the stairs, I'm going to need all the luck I can get.

"Why, good morning, Con." A crisp, harsh voice greets my ears as the door to the cellar creaks open and I step into the dark room above me. I peer into the gloom and spot a tall man, Doctor Neptunus Snails, bent over a high table. "How is my favorite assistant doing this morning?"

"Fahne..." I mumble, taking my seat next to him and watching as the man digs his large, tombstone teeth into an old sandwich. He stops eating as I say that, turning his eyes on me and squinting.

"Fine who?" he asks, tapping the table with each syllable. I shiver, gripping the coin in my hand and twirling it between my fingers. Each word that comes out of his mouth is enunciated perfectly in that harsh, clinical tone of his, but there's something dark behind it that always makes me feel uneasy.

"Uncle." I mumble and the man beams, clapping me heartily on the back. I don't know why Doc wants me to call him Uncle. He's not related to me and, from what he told me when he picked the skinny urchin I was more than a decade ago off the street, he never knew his family either, so why is it so important that I think of him as my uncle? I'd be much more comfortable just being an assistant, or a shill, or maybe even a colleague, if I was lucky. I guess it doesn't matter; I'm not going to argue with The Doc.

Next to me, Doctor Snails' chewing on his sandwich draws slowly to a stop again as another thought crosses his mind. He peers out past the wooden planks that cover the window to our house and turns to me.

"Is the formula alright?" he whispers, and I nod. "Good. I would hate to have to concoct more so soon."

We sell a lot of things, but Doctor N. Snails' Miracle Formula is the only thing we actually make ourselves. The stuff is supposed to cure colds, flues, rashes, sprains, breaks, fungal infections, stomach problems and practically any other problem that any one comes to us with. According to The Doc, the only thing the Formula can't cure is death, and he's working on that. No guarantees, of course; Dr. Snails isn't a man for guarantees. After all, you could be one of that small minority for whom the cure does nothing.

To be quite frank, I ain't convinced by this whole miracle cure stuff. I've never had it myself and, as far as I know, it could just be seawater. I wouldn't put it past The Doc. Then again, we've never had any complaints, but I can't help thinking that's because no one knows where to find us.

I settle down, grabbing a beer from the fridge and taking a swig. The Doc finishes his sandwich and inspects me, running his eyes over my hunched shoulders, sagging hair and thin frame.

"Are you sure everything's fine, my boy?" The Doc asks, a little concern creeping into his voice, "You normally stand straighter."

"No, Uncle," I grimace, looking away from him to shield myself from his piercing gaze, "Ah'm fahne."

"This isn't about the Reapings is it?" The Doc inquires, getting to his feet and stepping around me, staring me in the eyes, "You know you did your best."

"Yeah, Ah know," I sigh, deciding it's best to just tell him how I feel, "Ah just...God. Ah know ah messed up, you know Doc?" His expression hardens. "Ah mean, Uncle." I grin sheepishly and The Doc smiles forgivingly and nods.

"Messed up?" The Doc chuckles. "My dear boy, how could you possibly 'mess up?' You got the highest score there."

"No," I mutter, "Ah got the joint highest. Ah still gotta..." The Doc scowls at me. "... sorry, Ah mean, got to compete with all those other Careers who got the same score as me. You know, lahke Krakus and Robi and Gal and Magnus and..."

"And why would that matter?" The Doctor laughs, interrupting me. "I was in the crowd when you and the other Careers were giving your little speeches, and I can tell you not one of those boys was even slightly coherent, let alone a patch on you. The lot of them either stumbled straight through their speeches or bellowed at us. I can tell you categorically that you were, by a mile, the best speaker in the entire event."

"Yeah, but no one's gonna care about the speeches." I sigh, "The important part's the physical challenges."

"Which you completed admirably!" Doctor Snails grins, ruffling my hair.

"Yeah, but Ah wasn't the best." I sigh, shoulders sagging.

"You did well in all of them. You came second in a few, didn't you?"

"But second ain't the best, and people are only going to vote for the best, Ah just know it!"

"Hmm," Doctor Snails muses, placing a finger to his chin and giving it a thoughtful rub, "Well now, you know what I prescribe?"

"Doctor N. Snails' Miracle Formula."

The Doc laughs. "You're a sharp one, Con."

Normally I'd laugh along with him, but I don't feel up to it, even with my coin clutched in my hand. Right now, I don't think there's anything The Good Doctor could possibly say to me that could lighten my spirits.

"But, no. I recommend a nice, leisurely walk. We'll take the day off for a change, goodness knows we work hard enough every other day of the year."

I thought wrong.

My mouth falls open in surprise as I search for words that just don't come. The Doc has never, ever, as long as we've worked together, given me a day off. He's never even given himself a day off, so I guess that's fair. The shock of the gesture takes my breath away. All I can do is nod in appreciation as I step away from the table, nearly tripping over an upturned chair as I do so. My face cracks into a smile and I slip out of the door as quickly as I can, with the man marching slowly behind me.

A cold sea wind whips through the street as I step out into the District streets, holding my hat to my head in order to protect it from being blown away by the buffeting gale. Behind me, Doctor Snails snickers as I push my way through the gale.

"That's the spirit boy!" he roars, "You can beat the squall you can beat the Games! Keep it up!"

I grin back and give him a thumbs up as we twist our way through the streets and byways of District Four, ignoring anyone who attempts to approach us with an item.

Before I even know it, the pair of us have found our way to the great square that looks out over the port of District Four. The Doc gives me one last smile before turning up the collar of his dusty old lab coat and stepping away into a crowd of eager parents. I stand there alone, gazing up at a huge, bulbous Peacekeeper.

"Name." The man commands, fixing his piggy eyes on me.

"Con." I say with a grin, "Con Rossencourte." Since I don't know my parents I'm not really sure what my surname is so Rossencourte is a surname I chose myself, because I thought it sounded cool. I'm very proud of it myself, even if people have trouble prononcing it and, God knows it's better than my first name, which is what one of the tramps called me when I used to live under a bridge by the shore, shortly before Doc Snails picked me up.

"Roz-en-cur?" The Peacekeeper mutters, flicking through his forms, "Don't got no Roz-en-cur."

I sigh, "Rossencourte. You must have me."

"Don't think so," The Peackeeper mumbles, screwing his ugly face in a look of concentration. "Sure you ain't made it up?"

"Oh yes, of course Ah made up mah own name," I say.

"No need to get aggressive, sir. I's a possibility."

"Oh it is, is it? Tell me then, why would Ah make up a name?"

"Dunno," The Peacekeeper shrugs, "Just saying, could just be trying to mess with my head."

"Yeah, well Ah'm not, am Ah?" I growl. To think, I'd just got back to my normal, cheery self, and now this idiot is trying to ruin it for me. What have I done to make the universe hate me so much?

"I's a good point, sir." The 'Flower of Capitol Beauty' responds, "Is it possible you forgot your name?"

"Rose-hen-cord!"

Yep, the universe hates me. As I am about to retort to the Most intelligent Peacekeeper I have ever met, a large, red faced and incredibly angry Career bursts into the square and grips me by the scruff of my neck, nearly sending my coin spinning out of my hand. A group of almost as large and even more ugly Careers follow him, armed to the teeth with wooden training swords, heavy training weights and a whole variety of other useless bits and pieces that Careers carry to try and make them look intimidating. It's pathetic really. "I thought I heard your weasel voice!"

"Ah, Rose-hen-cord!" The Peacekeeper cheers, ticking off my name and slouching away to find more people to infuriate.

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Damon." I drawl, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "How are you doing today then mate?" Damon snarls his wolfish smile, screwing up the corners of my coat as he lifts me from the ground.

"I ain't your mate, Rose-hen-cord." Damon snarls, "I ain't never been yer mate an', if you want to have any ideas about keeping that pretty little face of yours, I suggest ya stop callin' me as such." The other boys behind Damon chuckle and look at each other, crooked smiles spread on their face.

"Charming." I throw him a casual smile, and the spotty faced seventeen year old spits in my face. "Think you could bring yourself to put me down, Damon. Ah'm getting kind of sick just starin' at your face." I wipe the spittle off my face and Damon snarls, flinging me to the ground with all his might. I sprawl across the floor, my coat spreading out across the ground, my coin clattering on to the street. Hearing the commotion, people turn to stare at us. Some of the braver children and many of the Careers gather round and begin to chant as Damon bares down on me. I half expect a Peacekeeper to step in and put a stop to our little scuffle but, then again, it's Reaping Day and this is District Four. There's always some sparring on Reaping Day so that the Careers can keep in shape, so people take it as a ordinary event. I guess the Peacekeepers think that as long as it's just the Careers and no one gets seriously injured or killed it's OK. Thinking about it District Four Peacekeepers really, really suck.

"Ugly, am I?" Damon roars, clenching his fists and stepping towards me.

"You said it not me, mate. But, Ah'll admit it ain't the prettiest sight." I chuckle, stretching out a hand to retrieve my coin and clambering to my feet. I carefully pocket the coin and raise my hands in mock surrender but, before I can say any more, Damon knocks me square in the face and I topple back on to my ass again. "Ya know Damon, if you don't let me get up how am Ah supposed to see the look on your face when you find out Ah got more votes than you?"

Damon gives a harsh laugh and leans down, pressing his piggy face up against mine, "Oh yeah? I seem t' recall I really massacred you in the strength trials _and _hammer practice."

"Sure you did," I smile, "Just like you did last year, an' the year before." Damon fixes me with a cocky grin, "But it's done like Training Scores in the Games, right, Damon, old mate?"

"So? I got a ten, just like last year."

"Yeah," I snicker, "And I got an eleven, mate."

OK, so I got a ten, just like Damon did, but hopefully Damon's too thick to remember that he's in the running for tribute just like I am. Fortunately, I've known Damon for a while and, as a businessman, I can tell you that betting on Damon being an idiot is a pretty safe bet.

The lie seems to do the job, as Damon loses control completely and lunges towards me, fury in his eyes. I leap to my feet, dodging out the way and the boy stumbles past and barrels straight in to two of his fellows.

I didn't think it was possible, but Damon's face actually gets uglier as he pushes the pair of Careers he's just crashed in to away from him with a shriek and leaps to his feet. Snarling, Damon wrenches a wooden sword out of the hands of one of his allies and bares down on my head. I spin to the side and Damon roars in frustration, slicing at me again with the blunted weapon.

He always was such a lovely boy, I think as I dodge another of Damon's slashes. I wonder if this is because I beat him last week when we sparred together.

The boy's a brute it's true but, thankfully, he ain't all that bright. Sure, he may be better with a blunt weapon than me and I may be unarmored, but he certainly doesn't know how to conceal a weapon like I do.

I leap past the boy as he thrusts the training sword at me, unclipping one of my larger pockets and sending a rather heavy and not particularly pretty clock right into his ugly mug.

Damon stops, clutching his face in pain and letting his sword fall to the ground. Wasting no time I scoop his sword up from the ground and slam him in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. Damon screams in fury, attempting to stand, but this time it is my turn to kick him straight in the face. He grips at my coat, pulling me down on top of me and ramming me hard in the stomach and I spin away winded. The teen recovers fast, placing a heavy foot on my coat to stop me moving as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, whipping a little blood from his nose. Idiot. I twist round as quickly as I can, wrapping the tails of my coat around his boots and, before he can react, I pull hard away from him. Damon grunts as the coat pulls forwards, taking his legs with it and, sending him crashing backwards into the ground. The other Careers groan in sympathy as his face, or maybe the ground, makes a sickening crack, and Damon finally lies still, unconscious.

Well that was easy. Talk about a glass cannon.

Now all I have to do is worry about his mates. I spin on my heels, expecting to see three or four teens baring down on me. Instead, however, I find myself facing a group of Careers standing there expectantly.

"Nice," One of the larger one's, a thug called Krakus, nods at me with a slight smile, "Wish I could fight like that." I smile back. Never would have guessed that would happen. I suppose, at the end of the day they're not complete thugs. They're Careers. They respect a victor.

Well, looks like I've got them waiting for me to do something, better not waste this opportunity. I smile widely, straightening an imaginary tie as I prepare to launch myself into a classic pitch.

"This, ladies and gentlemen," I declare, pointing at Damon, who moans slightly as he begins to stir on the ground, "Is the perfect example of the sort of tribute you don't want! Lazy, arrogant, work shy and, may Ah add, ladies and gentlemen, not particularly appealing. Ah've seen it too many times! Ah said Ah've seen it too many times to even count! Some dumb ass stalks into the Games thinking he can win just by hitting people with stuff. Are there any tricks up his sleeves? Ladies an' gentlemen, this boy don't even know what sleeves are! All brawn, no brain, see? There were tributes like this last year, and the year before and, you know what? None of them have ever won! Soon as they come up against a proper Career, you know, someone with actual brains, well, Ah dare say they just don't have a leg to stand on. Now do you want a boy like this?" I chuckle as I nudge Damon slightly with my foot. He grasps at my leg and I give a quick step backwards, avoiding his grip. "Or do you want a Victor?"

My fellow Careers cheer me, lifting me on to their shoulders and carrying me to the Seventeen's section. I look back just before the group put me down, just in time to see Damon climb to his feet, a vicious snarl etched on his face. Grinning, I take my spot between Krakus and a rather unstable Career by the name of Robi.

I have to say that was a nice little morale boost. Not going to help me much in the vote though. We did all the voting last week, just after those Career trials. Basically after we all got a chance to perform and then, once we had, the judges gave us all scores. Then they took the people with the highest scores and got everyone to vote for which one they wanted to go to the Games. In the end it was an amazing stroke of luck that both me and Damon got tens, I don't think either of us really deserved that high a score. Personally I think he only got that because his dad was one of the judges. As for me, I don't know. Maybe they really liked my speech or something. I am quite a smooth talker.

The Career trials are a yearly tradition in District Four but, to be honest, this was the only year where they actually mattered. Normally the person who Volunteers is the guy who can knock the most other guys out in the melee in front of the stage not the one who gets the best score in Career trials. That's probably why District Four doesn't win as much as the other two Career Districts. All of our Careers are just burly thugs with no brain. Everyone else at least has a system.

I hear some of the other Districts are doing the voting on the day. Wish we did that here, because then the fact I just knocked out Damon Wallis would actually help me, as opposed to just making me his punching bag next time I see him. I sigh as I fiddle in agitation with a few of the wares hidden deep in my pockets. I am not looking forward to seeing that guy again.

Up on stage Mayor Carpen finally brings the most boring speech he has ever managed to give to a close, and casts his eyes over the crowd. "Thank you for your time." Time? Patience more like. Heck, anyone who manages to actually listen to that twaddle more than deserves to go to the Games. I roll my eyes as Carpen continues. "Now please welcome our Escort, Eli Montgomery, who will pick the name of our lucky Victor from the Reaping balls!"

No one claps as a diminutive man in platform shoes that are almost six inches tall takes the stage. Some of his greasy puce hair hangs limply against his face, while the rest is crammed into a huge, serving plate like hat. He stares at us through green, half lidded eyes and the tiniest of smiles stretches across his sagging, unshaven face. A few, small cue cards are gripped in his hands, but he's not looking at them. Asides from the shoes and the dumb hat that makes him look like he should have hors d'oeuvres piled on his head, Eli really isn't dressed that badly for a Capitolite. What he's wearing is kind of like a red and blue tux if someone took a pair of scissors to it. Yeah, it's stupid, but it has a certain charm to it. Well, at least I think so. I can appreciate his clothing even if I can't appreciate anything else about Eli Montgomery.

Sometimes I wish we had some good looking chick running the show, like some of the other Districts have, at least then there'd be something to look at that wasn't this little snot.

Eli lets out a breath of air and mutters what I'm pretty sure is a curse, before beginning to speak.

"Well," Eli Montgomery sighs, "Quell year. Fun, huh? Umm, yeah. Well, err, yeah, this year... err... no Volunteers, alright? Yeah, good. You Careers, uh, did that thing a couple of weeks ago..." He quickly stares at his cards, "'The Career Trials'... Whatever. Look, you all voted so... Yeah, whoever got the most votes his going to the Games... Umm... Err..." He huffs and curses again, just loud enough for some of the twelve year olds to hear him and giggle. He shakes his head sorrowfully and throws his cue cards to the ground. "God, let's just get this over with. Ladies first..." He reaches into the glass globe and clutches a slip between his checkerboard nails, drawing it out and flipping it open. "Roulla Saney."

Called it. Of course Roulla Saney would get chosen, she's the best sixteen year old District Four has to offer and, having dated, and dumped, some of the competition, I can tell you that's no easy feat. Those girl's can really dish it out if you make them mad, I still have bruises from the last time I had to tell some kid I just wasn't interested.

Well whatever, good luck to Roulla I guess. Personally I voted for Misty Sands, since I was dating her at the time and the chick would have ended my life pretty quickly if I voted for anyone else. But I know Doc put his money on Roulla. Really he'd have been pretty thick not to. Looking back I probably should have voted for Roulla. Misty was way too competitive.

Down in the sixteen year old's section a tall, blonde girl stomps out of the crowd, head held high. People cheer and clap as Roulla makes her way up. She gets a few nasty looks thrown at her by the some of the older girls, but no one Volunteers. Well of course not, no one's allowed to and, despite the fact that some of the eighteen year olds are probably gonna beat themselves up for the rest of their lives because they missed their chance, no one is going to risk disobeying Eli, even if he is pathetic.

Roulla makes it to the stage and begins to mount the steps, her dirty gold hair twisting gracefully in the wind. She appears slightly repulsed as the ugly little Escort pulls her up next to him and smiles nervously as he looks her up and down.

"Wonderful. Yeah, great" Eli murmurs, before tottering over to the second glass ball and reaching inside, "Now lets see which one of you... people will be joining... her." He jabs his thumb back at Roulla, who looks rather annoyed, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

It's then that my fingers, groping around in my pockets, tighten around the coin that lies there. My smile returns slightly as I pull the battered piece of metal out in to the sunlight and inspect it.

I'll toss the coin one last time before he calls the name. It couldn't hurt my chances now could it?

With that thought I flip the coin up in to the air. It spins a few times and, for a second, hangs there, the light glinting off it. I feel my heart soar as I watch the coin spin and land back in my palm, memories of the day I found it in the gutter filling my head.

"What's that for?" Krakus asks me with a nudge as Eli grips the slip in between his fingers and retrieves it from the ball.

"Luck." I reply.

"You're gonna need it kid," The Career snickers, shaking his head.

"Yeah well, good luck, Krakus," I nod to the tall teen next to me, and Krakus beams, tossing me a casual thumbs up.

"Same to you, mate." He replies.

"Yeah," Robi agrees, turning to me, "Good luck girly boy!"

"Ah'll try," I grin. Who am I kidding, I think, sagging slightly and letting out the breath that I was unaware I had been holding. I ain't going to the Games this year.

"Con Rose... Ro... Rosehen... Yeah, you know what? You know who you are."

I most certainly do! I won! I actually won!

Seriously? I can't believe it! That must be like, impossible luck. That's got to be more luck than a coin has in it. How does that even work? I'm so surprised that I almost collapse. Krakus chuckles, flinging me to my feet and pushing me out into the crowd.

"Lucky," He sighs, shaking his head, "Guess I'll just have to wait till next year."

"Go for it Rose-hen-cord!" Someone crows.

"Kill them girly boy!" Robi snarls, "Knock 'em dead girly boy! Knock 'em dead!"

I smile as I slouch up to the stage and take my place next to Roulla. Eli presses our hands together, and I smile, stroking Roulla's hand with my thumb as I let my mind wander. She's not particularly attractive, if I'm to be quite honest, but we're going to be spending a lot of time together, so I might as well get to know her better. I mean, the girl does have legs, which is always a good thing.

As the two of us smile and wave to the cheering, and in some cases jeering, crowds, I take a look at Eli's scattered cue cards on the floor and I turn to him.

"You realise those are blank don't you?" I ask and he nods.

"Yeah, I like to... errm... improvise." Eli replies.

"I never would have guessed," I say, a smug smile on my face, and Eli grimaces. "My name's Con Rossencourte, by the way."

"I know that," Eli lies.

"Just saying, you're probably gonna need to know that when Ah'm a Victor."

"Sure I will big shot..." Eli growls, "Yeah. Tell me how being trained by Fidget works out for you." He gestures over to a tall, flea bitten mentor hanging about in the corner of the stage, his eyes wide and wild, his face fixed in a permanent grin. The man waves and turns away, like he's not quite sure where, or even who, he is.

We're being mentored by Fidget! Oh good Lord, no!

I barely remember Fidget's victory in the Thirteenth Hunger Games, being only a five year old urchin at the time. I remember I was staying with a nice couple at the time, who thought they might adopt me because, apparently, they couldn't have children, and this tall, twitchy Career volunteered for the Games. He seemed like an OK guy, a bit of a loner maybe and not much of a fighter, until the Games started. The Career alliance was really good that year, really well controlled. They penned off a bunch of the tougher tributes in the Bloodbath and hacked them up, letting only the weaklings and losers escape so they could be hunt them down later. Seven kids died in that fight without even getting the chance and, then, on a signal from the District Four chick running the alliance, the Careers stopped hacking and regrouped. But Fidget didn't.

By the end of the day the Career alliance was gone. It's members either dead or fled.

The Games didn't last much longer and neither did my life with that couple. They dumped me out on the curb as soon as the woman found out she was pregnant. If they had a real kid they didn't need some cheap imitation after all.

But that Games taught me an important lesson.

All it takes is a single crazy to mess up even the best Careers plans. Take District Ten last year for example. One hundred percent crazy the both of them. It only takes one crazy and then all those plans, all those ideas and schemes, they don't mean nothing.

And Fidget is that crazy.

A shadow falls over my face and I'm pretty sure I can see the same horror in Roulla's face as Eli turns and leads the pair of us to our farewells.

* * *

My farewells are exceptionally boring. As always whoever my parents are refuse to show up. A few Careers show up to congratulate me, but most of them are just training partners, not friends. In fact, the most emotional farewell I get is from Mr Jaggers, who gives a heartfelt speech about his watch, before forcing me to return it to him. I flip my coin a couple times just to keep myself interested but even that begins to bore me after I pass the ten minute mark.

Just as I am starting to go to sleep, the tent flap swings open and a tall, toothy man in a dirty lab coat slips into the room.

"Congratulations, my boy!" The Doc cheers, shaking me warmly by the hand before wrapping me in a tight hug, "I knew you could do it!" I nod enthusiastically, "Didn't I tell you?"

"Ah guess," I smile, "Ah must've just got lucky or something you know."

"Well you say that," The Doc chuckles, "But as a Doctor I don't believe in luck."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I'm saying you always would have won, luck or none." Doctor Snails tells me, stroking his soul patch with one finger.

"Are you saying someone made sure Ah won?" I ask incredulously, shifting forwards in my seat, "That Ah only won because Ah cheated?"

"My dear boy, I'm merely saying you were the obvious choice. Even if somebody had helped you, it is simply incomprehensible that..."

"You did this," I say, my eyes lighting up as realization dawns on my face.

"I might have," He says with a wide grin.

"But, but how?" I ask, astounded.

"I may or may not have been in the right place at the right time and may have, I am by no means saying I did but, I may have had just the right enough money on my person to ensure the loyalty of each one of the people who judged you at your little speech and may have convinced them to add a few more thousand papers with your name on them."

"You bribed them?"

"Bribery is such an ugly word. I prefer 'financially convinced'." The two of us burst into laughter, clutching our sides and smacking each other on the back as we roll about on the ground. After the two of us have regained the ability to speak, I turn to him.

"And here Ah thought it was luck," I sigh, flipping the coin again, "Man, Ah thought this coin was actually doing something for me." Dr Snails shakes his head, his eyes falling on the coin as it rises and falls.

"I still can't fathom why you keep that thing," He grumbles.

"It's lucky," I tell him, "Ah'm thinking of making it mah token."

"It's a piece of metal," He replies, his voice dripping with cynicism, "What on earth are you going to do with it?"

"Easy. Ah'm gonna use it to buy mah first drink in the Capitol once Ah'm a Victor."

"That's my boy." The Doc chuckles and ruffles my hair.

"Oh yeah, Uncle," He smiles warmly and I feel all warm inside. What can I say, Doctor Snails deserved the title uncle. I should call him it without needing to be reminded at least once. "You'll be wanting your Formula back Ah guess." I tell him, holding out the metal canister.

"That I will," The Doc replies, taking the canister off of me, "And I believe you'll be wanting this." He passes me over a small book with a tiny pen slipped inside the spine. It's a book I've seen many times, tucked under his arm or open on a table, with him scrawling frantically in it.

"Your notebook?" I ask, taking it and scrutinizing it carefully. It doesn't look quite right for some reason.

"My spare." The Doc smiles, flicking the book open to reveal that it is empty, "Write in it. Write how you feel, which girls you like, I know you'll find someone to waste some time with, you always do. Don't forget who you are." He tells me, placing a hand on my shoulder, "I've seen too many children forget who they are in the Arena. I don't want you doing the same. Try to win. I know you can."

"Thanks," I tell him and he smiles, wiping what I think might actually be a tear from his eye.

"I care for you deeply," He tells me, before turning on his heel, tucking the canister under his arm and strutting out.

I don't bother waiting to see if anyone else will come, I don't want anyone else to spoil the moment. If I stick around any longer anyone could show up. Heck, I could even have Damon coming down to kiss me goodbye.

Man he must be sore about this. I'm going to the Games and he has to sit home knowing he's only got one more year. Poor guy. Almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost.

Leaving my tent I am quickly rushed across to the train station, and find Roulla already waiting for me. She's a little taller than I and, now that I get a chance to look at her, she's not disgustingly bad looking, so I think I'll give her a go.

Trying to make myself look as tall as possible I waltz over to her. I still only come up to her chest and, to be honest, I'm pretty much fine with that.

"So, you're Roulla Saney huh?" I ask.

"Yes." The girl doesn't look at me. She's either shy or she's just really haughty, I don't know.

"Congratulations on getting Reaped."

"Thank you." She still doesn't look at me so I walk around her to the other side, but she looks resolutely away.

"Ah saw you training," The girl stiffens up and I chuckle. Definitely shy, "You're pretty neat."  
"Thank you." She says, her voice slightly quieter than before.

"So, you ready for the Games?" I shuffle a little closer and she shuffles away.

"Yes. I believe so." Man this girl is awkward. Why can't she make eye contact, is she scared of me or something? The Doc says some girls have a thing called androphobia. Maybe she's just scared of guys.

"So, your family happy for you, doll?"

"Please don't call me that." I smile and take a step forwards. Got her. She takes a quick step back, but still manages to keep her expression serious.

"Oh come on, Ah call everyone doll, it doesn't mean anything!" Maybe she saw my eyes when we shook hands. Maybe she's scared because my eyes creep her out. I guess that's possible.

"Regardless, please don't call me that." Roulla looks at me and, for the first time, I catch a good look at her eyes. They're sparkling blue, fixed in a freckly face that has its own cute charm, despite her lack of a figure.

"Did anyone ever tell you you have beautiful eyes?" Roulla jumps, as though stun, raising her hands to her chest and clenching her fists.

"What do you think you are doing?" Roulla snaps.

"Ah'm sorry," I tell her, "Ah thought you'd appreciate the complement."

"While you seem like a charming young man, I am afraid I am not interested," Roulla squeaks, taking another step backwards and stumbling over her words. I take a step forwards but, before I can say anything, she regains composure and hurls herself into a tirade. "This is the Hunger Games! You realize there can only be one Victor?"

"Ah guess, Ah was just..."

"There is no point in making stupid emotional attachments when in a couple of days the pair of us will be fighting to the death! I am willing to be your ally but I am most certainly not prepared to be your- your crush! I am surprised that Career such as yourself would entertain the notion that such a relationship were possible in an Arena of death!" I need a dictionary to keep up with this girl. Is she even speaking English? I have no idea because she's talking far too fast for me to keep up.

"No, Ah just thought you were cute. Ah wasn't expecting to be in a relationship or..."

"And if," The girl continues to rage, "God forbid, this were merely some sort of ruse to win my affection so that you can kill me when I let my guard down..."

"Now, you listen here, doll..."

"...Then I find you despicable Con Rossencourte and will have you know that while you may be charming I do not find you at all attractive and I am not interested Mr Rossencourte! You are _not_ my type!" She breaths heavily and I take a step away.

"Ah was just trying to be friendly." I mumble and she stares down at me darkly, like a mother scolding a naughty child. If this is what having a mother is like then count me out!

"Your behavior is quite inappropriate," Roulla mutters, turning on her heel and marching away, "I expect you to apologize before we reach the Capitol, or I suggest you find a different alliance. "

God I'm an idiot. I'm in one of the only Districts where I'm guaranteed an alliance and I go and make a bad first impression. That can really jeopardize a potential sale, and this time I was selling the most important item of my life.

Me.

"What do Ah do?" I say to no one in particular.

"Apologize," I jump and spin on my heel, seeing Fidget standing directly behind me, grinning eerily down at me. He twitches a little and rests a bony hand on my shoulder. There's no way this guy is above thirty but, for some reason, his hand feels more like that of an eighty year old, all warty and skinny. "Be real nice to her and, heh, send her some chocolate or something. That or you could kill her. That's what I did."

"Ah, Ah don't want to kill her. She's cute."

"I know," Fidget snickers, "There was a cute girl in my District when I got Reaped. Couldn't kill her as long as I could see her sweet face. My advice, heh, take a blindfold as your token. It'll really help you snap her neck. Just so long as you can see her." He gives a crooked grin, not really seeming to realize that what he just said made absolutely no sense as he lurches off towards the train, a slight sway in his step. I was right. There's no way, absolutely no way in hell, that this guy will be able to help me in the Games.

I sigh, shaking my head and wandering towards the train as slowly as I possibly can. I'm not exactly eager to join either Roulla or Fidget. I never thought I'd say this but, at the moment, I'd actually rather spend time with Eli.

So let's assess how I'm doing, shall we?

My name's Con Rossencourte. I've never met my parents and, to be honest, I really don't want to. I just left the only man who ever cared for me to run off to the Games. I'm probably going to get killed by Damon as soon as I get back, if I get back. My Escort's a lazy asshole. My partner probably hates me, and my mentor's crazy.

"Ah am so boned."

* * *

**Roulla Saney of District 4 (Age 16)**

**By Jayfish**

* * *

**Jayfish's A/N: **

**Hey, everyone! Jayfish here. I'm so excited to be a part of this story, again! For those of you that read _Tears of Blood, _I PROMISE that this character is nothing like Relk Stein. Heheh, you know you loved him though...  
****Okay, I'm done here. Enjoy!**

* * *

Despite the fact that I am already awake, when my mother calls me downstairs for breakfast I don't move an inch.

This kind of behavior is out of character for me. Sleeping in is something I do not do and I tend not to ignore my parents either. Still, I think that today I have a free pass to do what I like. This is the last time I will be laying in this bed, at least for a few weeks and possibly forever.

That last thought makes a frown flit across my brow. _No, I can't afford to think like that. The rest of the Careers will all be extremely confident, and if I come across as unsure of myself, they will cut me down._

I'm not unsure of myself, not really. I have more skill than any other female in District Four. I'm not bragging, it is basically undisputable fact by now. I haven't been beaten in training since I was thirteen. That was three years ago, and my abilities have only increased since then.

I move my head two inches to the right and glance out the window. It is practically black outside. It seems as if my mother wants me to train before the reapings. If it really is so early in the morning, I should have three hours before reapings start. District Four likes to commence with things early.

"Roulla!" My mother has no doubt realized that I am awake. "Get down here!" There's no point in luxuriating any longer. If I continue to ignore her, she'll come upstairs and drag me out of bed by the wrists, and that is painful and annoying.

"I'm coming, Mother!" I call back, swinging my tanned legs away from my sheets. My feet hit the hardwood floor and I jog to the door, opening it and heading for the stairs.

The smell of bacon and eggs hits my nose and my stomach growls. This worries me. For the past few weeks I have been eating less and less, training myself for the extreme hunger that comes along with the Hunger Games. I shouldn't be so hungry this morning. _Then again… I must look healthy on television, to attract sponsors. I suppose I_will _have breakfast today._

I finish my descent to the first floor and pass through the sitting room, pausing only to give the family dog a quick rub. Rusty whines in pleasure, bumping her head against my thin fingers. "Good girl," I say, scratching behind her ears. "Good dog."

"Roulla!"

"I'm here," I announce quietly, slipping into the kitchen. The entire room is filled with the enticing breakfast aroma that has so entranced my stomach.

"Sit down," Mother says. Her black eyes are dancing with excitement, although she tries her best to hide it. I don't think she wants me to know how much she wanted this day to come. Following her instructions, I pull up a chair beside my father. He is staring contemplatively into his coffee mug, and I know that asking him anything right now will result in a dull silence. He gets like this in the mornings sometimes, and I have learned to let him be.

"Here," Mother says brusquely, sliding my plate in front of me. There is an average portion for me; enough so that I won't look half-starved on camera, but not enough to foil all of the hunger training I've gone through. "Hurry up and eat," Mother says. "We don't have much time."

An ominous proclamation, but I understand that she has a somewhat busy schedule for me today. Training first, of course. Every time I'm not swimming, I'm training. In fact, I believe she wants me to go for a swim after that. Something about loosening up my muscles. I suppose it makes sense, if you think about it. I see no reason to think about it, so I don't.

I pick up my fork and proceed to brutalize my eggs, smashing them into a pulpy mess which I sop up with bacon. The whole plate of food does not take particularly long to devour, even with the three glasses of orange juice my mother forces on me. I am a fast eater. My mother determined that I needed to know how to eat quickly when I was six. She would give me five minutes to eat my dinner, and if I didn't finish she would take it away. After a few days of going hungry, I became excellent at eating quickly.

I think her obsession with fast eating has something to do with the Games. Perhaps she thinks that if I eat quickly, no one can take my food away. It is most certainly a vastly ignored skill, and so I already have the slightest of edges over my opponents. Catching me off my guard while eating will be difficult, as will stealing my food. This is just one of the tiny preparations I've made for my week in the most dangerous place I'll ever be.

"Done?" My mother sees the empty plate and nods in approval, whisking it away. "Alright," she says. "Upstairs and training clothes, right now."

Getting changed quickly is not something we've practiced, but I am excellent at it anyway. My whole life has been a wearying fight to be excellent at all things. I cannot say that I am great at everything, but there are many things that I pride myself in. Hopefully they will be able to save my life when it counts.

Running up the stairs, I am a hunter. It is only my training clothes that I am hunting, but I am as determined to find them as I will be to find tributes in the arena. Maybe even more determined, because I am not trying to kill my training clothes.

I find them in my extraordinarily neat closet, hanging on flimsy wire hangers. Fluidly, I strip naked, pausing to glance at myself in the mirror. I am slim, tall, and yet I still wasn't enough. Not for Yiri.

Thinking about Yiri on a day like this is foolish and I should stop. I turn my mind to that strange mole on my hip; I should have that checked when I reach the Capitol. I poke it with a finger and determine to leave it well enough alone.

My training clothes are tight and conform to my frame. They allow enough movement for me to swing a knife and run as fast as I possibly can, and they are comfortable enough that I can forget they're there even as I slip them on. I give myself another critical glance in the mirror. I will return home after training; my hair looks ridiculous and I will require plenty of makeup if I want to come close to looking beautiful. And I do want to look beautiful, because the beautiful ones always get the most sponsors.

It is a race to get back down the stairs, and I whizz into the kitchen and stop dead, allowing my mother to glance me over. Her eyes are critical, but finally she nods. "Go," she says. "You have two hours."

I nod and stride from the room, heading to the front door. Rusty gives a wheezy bark, but I don't turn around. "I don't have time right now," I tell her, even though she cannot understand me. "I am sorry."

The front door squeaks quietly as I exit our large house. Surprisingly, Mathem has been sitting on the doorstep, looking bored. The sky is still dark; he must have gotten up at dawn to come see me. When he notices me, he jumps to his feet and his eyes light up. Like always, I pretend not to notice the eager way he holds himself, and his obvious excitement upon seeing me. _I am sorry,_I think, mirroring what I just said to my dog. _I don't love you, Mathem._

There's no need to tell him, though. I have no interest in breaking Mathem Tera's heart. Besides, my own heart is broken and confused, and I want Mathem to find a girl who possesses the capability to love him. I don't even have that.

_I am an awful friend for you, Mathem. You should find someone who can love you like you want to be loved._

But these are my private thoughts, and Mathem is not privy to them. "Roulla!" he exclaims, leaning towards me. "Are you training now?"

I nod briskly and begin to walk, forcing him to jog next to me. "That was my intention," I say evenly. I don't really want to send him away, but I'd much rather train on my own.

Mathem does not seem to get this. "Ah," he says. "Want some company?"

It would be extremely rude to say no, so I give a noncommittal shrug of my shoulders. Mathem can probably tell something is off (I always prefer to give definitive answers) but he doesn't mention it. Perhaps he thinks I am nervous about what lies ahead. I am, but not nervous enough to redefine my way of doing things.

"Mathem," I say.

"Ah, come on, Roulla!" he replies. "Call me Mat. Mathem sounds so formal."

My lips twitch. "I am a formal girl, Mathem."

He pouts. "What were you gonna say, anyway?" he mutters finally, defeated.

"I just wanted to point out that you have no need to be training right now," I say. We are very near the training center, and this is my last chance to get rid of him. "You are not coming with me."

Mathem makes a face. "I don't get what you voted for Con Rossencourte for," he mutters. "That guy's annoying as hell."

"Yes, but his little speech during training was quite eloquent." Despite the boy's strange accent. "Besides," I continue. "I am glad you aren't coming."

Mathem looks hurt. "Why not? I could've protected you, Roulla!"

"Yes, at the expense of your own life," I reply. "We have talked about this, Mathem. It would not have made sense for you to come along with me. I have no emotional attachment to Con Rossencourte, or whoever it is that accompanies me. I will not feel bad about killing him." It's harsh, but it's true.

Mathem is looking at the ground. It is obvious that I have offended him. "Please stop that," I say. "You have no reason to be upset."

"Yeah, I do," he mutters, and adds something so quiet that it is unintelligible. It is obvious that I wasn't meant to hear it, so I let it slide.

We have reached the steps to the training center. I start up and realize that Mathem has stopped. "Roulla," he says. "I just remembered something." He might be lying, but he is bouncing from foot to foot and looks so anxious that he probably _did_forget something. "I've gotta go."

I nod. "I understand," I say, silently thanking the fates. "I will see you at the reapings, I presume."

"Yeah," Mathem says. "And I'll come visit you later." His eyes shift to the ground, and then he turns around and hurries away.

He is up to something. Whatever it is, there is no doubt in my mind that I will find out what it is soon. A brief image of Mathem strangling my soon-to-be district partner (whoever he is) pops into my mind, and I smirk a little. It _is_funny.

There is literally no one at all in the training center when I walk in, except for the security guard. Mother probably bribed him to open the center this early, when the sun has barely even risen. The guard and I know each other quite well, and he nods at me as I walk past him. I nod back, but I have no time for idle chatter. This is my last chance to get in some training before the Games start, and I don't want to waste it.

I would play around with the throwing knives, but I'm too good at those to benefit from practice now. I could use a trident, but it is unlikely that one will be provided in the arena. I finally settle on practicing my sword work. I am not as good with a sword as I would like, and I plan to remedy that situation.

I pick a light number whose hilt fits easily in my hand and walk to one of the training dummies. Some joker has drawn all over the poor dummy's face, and I frown. _They have no respect for training equipment,_I think, not at all amused. _How aggravating._

I suppose that I should get rid of the graffiti. Whirling, I let the sword flash in the air as I jab at the dummy's face. I miss with the first stab, but on the second I manage to get the sword halfway through its thick head. I push, and with a splintery crack the sword completes the stab. I pull it free and examine the dummy. I can still see the graffiti, and that irritates me. I whirl again, and slice the sword towards the dummy's neck. Unfortunately, I end up slicing off half of its head instead. I reassure myself by thinking about how I still could have killed a person like that. It would have been a gruesome death, but it would have prevented my own demise. In the Hunger Games, that is all that matters.

The time goes by quickly, but I know when two hours is up. I have a very good sense of timing, which is fortunate. My mother has the same sense I do, and she would raise quite a fuss if I was ever late for anything. Perhaps she was the thing that gave me my good timing. I don't know.

I replace the sword and leave the training center, nodding to the guard on my way out. "Good luck, Roulla!" he says as I leave, and I give him the barest hint of a smile.

"Thank you," I reply, shouldering the doors open and stepping into the bright sunlight. My mother said two hours for training, and I know she means for me to go swimming as well. As long as I am following her instructions, she won't mind if I don't come back home before my swim. I usually swim in my training clothes anyway; in the arena I won't have the luxury of a bathing suit, and so I must simulate the swimming conditions I _will_have as best I can.

I take a right at the corner, heading for the docks. They are a dangerous place to swim, which is why I swim there. Avoiding boats and oars is a good way to become more agile in the water. I have been hit a few times, which makes for some angry encounters and a lot of blood from me, but I am now quite used to the agility boat-dodging requires.

Unsurprisingly, the docks are empty. It is illegal to go fishing on the day of the reapings, and to top it off, it is ridiculously early. Even if it wasn't, I doubt there would be many people around. District Four is too excited about the upcoming Games to skip the reapings for such a mundane task as fishing.

I walk to the edge of the wooden dock and keep on walking, letting myself fall into the ocean with a stinging slap. I sink to the bottom quickly; the ocean is not particularly deep here, so close to shore. My eyes are wide open and I let my head swivel, automatically checking for danger. Sharks never come this close to the docks, but it is good to be careful.

My dull gold hair floats around my head like ethereal seaweed. I run a finger through it, and my lungs begin to complain. Kicking my legs, I slip to the surface and break it, breathing in quietly through my nose. Today I want to practice stealth swimming, and I don't want to get too far away from shore. I was caught by a riptide once, and this is not the day for another riptide to snatch me away.

Stealth swimming means I stay underwater, and when I break surface it has to be quiet. I like to turn onto my back and let only the tip of my nose protrude from the water. This is not a good way to get oxygen, but I am able to swim for quite a while without it. Hopefully, I would have gotten away from whatever was threatening me by now. Stealth swimming is also good for sneaking up behind unsuspecting tributes. I jerk myself vertically out of the water and reached for a head that isn't there, supporting the imaginary weight against my chest as I snap an imaginary neck. Breathing through my mouth now, I release my hands and allow the imaginary corpse to drift into the depths below.

It is time to go back, I think. Treading water, I paddle leisurely back towards the dock and hoist myself up, shaking my head like Rusty after I give her a bath. I am dripping wet, and so I lean against one of the wooden posts and wait a while. My mother will not be happy if I enter the house like this.

The sun is high in the sky, and it doesn't take very long for me to become damp instead of dripping. This is all the time I can afford, and I break into a run as I head back to the house. I am not worried about being late; I simply enjoy running. Running is one of the only things I was born good at. I have never had to train for running; it is practically the only thing that comes naturally to me.

The wind whips through damp tendrils of my hair, and I pound back towards the house. The soles of my feet complain as I hurtle up the steps and jerk to a stop in front of the door, the tip of my nose mere centimeters away from polished wood. I raise a hand and rap three times, breathing quietly.

It takes a full minute before my bleary-eyed father opens the door. "Roulla," he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You'd better watch out, love. Mommy's on the warpath."

"I _heard_that, Grey," my mother snaps, marching in from the kitchen. "Roulla," she barks. "Upstairs, and for the love of all that is holy get out of those wet clothes right now."

"Yes," I say. "I will put them in the hamper, don't worry."

She rolls her eyes. "Just go."

I go, pulling myself free of the clothes as I walk. By the time I make it to my room, I am topless. I pull off the pants and drop them in the hamper. _Hopefully someone will wash my clothes while I'm away._

A thought occurs to me, and I smile. _What if I'm not picked this year? Imagine how furious Mother would be._The possibility is ridiculously faint, though. I happen to know that pretty much everyone is voting for me. There is no one who is able to beat me, and we aren't allowed to vote for ourselves. There is no one else to vote for.

Mother bustles in, holding swathes of fabric in her hands. "Put your hands up," she says, and I raise them into the air. Efficiently, she tosses a dark skirt over my head and pulls the dress down. I feel it cling to my nonexistent curves, and I turn to look in the mirror.

The dress is black, with a silver pattern at the plunging neckline and the bottom of the skirt. "Let me do up your bow," Mother says, slipping behind me and yanking the fabric, no doubt pulling together something elaborate.

I am motionless as she rushes from the room and returns with the makeup bag. "Hold still," she commands, pushing me onto my bed. I am a statue as she dabbles with paints and brushes. I have never had the time or the patience for makeup, and so I can only hope that she isn't making me look frightening.

"Done," says Mother, her voice almost breathless. "Go, Roulla. Look at yourself in the mirror." I rise from the bed as gracefully as I can manage and take a quick glance. To be honest, I do not see much difference from my normal self, but I am not frighteningly hideous. Hopefully, this will be enough for the sponsors. _If I am even picked._

It is a rather useless thought. _Of course I will be._

Mother glances at her watch. "Alright," she says. "Hair next." She leaves the room again, and I am beginning to think that maybe she has forgotten about me when she returns with a snarl on her face. "Damn brush was hiding," she growls, shoving me back onto the bed and attacking my hair.

Despite the pain, I can tell that she is doing a good job. My mother has always been good with hair. She can even transform my dull locks into hair that I can be proud of.

"Good enough," she sighs finally, getting up. "This is the prettiest I can make you. Get up and spin." I do, my arms extended slightly from my sides. She wrinkles her nose critically. "Too thin," she says, "and not sexy enough. You won't be attracting enough sponsors like that."

The words sting but I brush them aside. She is right, of course. "I will have a different angle, then," I say. "I will be deadly."

She thinks about that one for a minute. "Alright," she says finally. "You're serious enough to pull it off."

It is not something I should thank her for, so I don't.

"Look," she says, after a moment's silence. "I have some jewelry for you." She produces a drawstring bag from a pocket in her skirt I didn't know she had. "A pearl necklace," she announces, pulling it out. No surprise there, my family became rich after my mother's father discovered a wealth of pearls in the sea. Pearls are our specialty.

Mother brushes a lock of hair from my neck as she clasps the necklace on. I shiver slightly at her touch. Yiri loved playing with my hair, and her delicate fingers sometimes wound their way to the back of my skull and tickled the most sensitive nerves I had.

I wish I was with her right now, but I'm not. _And I will never be with Yiri again,_I remind myself, resolute. _Yiri is in the past. She does not think about me in the same way I think about her._

"Okay," Mother says. "We aren't going to give you any rings. The Capitol boys are going to go mad over you no matter what you look like, but if you're wearing rings they won't be quite so keen on you."

"Yes, of course," I say. Inside, I am shaking my head. Capitol boys? I am not interested. Capitol girls?

Maybe.

If they are anything like Yiri, definitely.

Mother glances at her watch again. "Time to go," she announces. "Your father and I will see you when it's time to say goodbye."

I nod. "Alright," I say, getting to my feet and smoothing the wrinkles in my dress. "I am looking forward to it."

"Do you have a token?" Mother asks, her face worried.

"No, I do not," I say. "I don't see what I need one for."

"It looks good," Mother replies. "Perhaps… oh, I don't know…" Realizing that I am still standing before her, she waves her hand. "Go," she snaps. "I want you there bright and early." I have been up since dawn practically, so I would know about early. The sun has barely been up for an hour or so.

I exit my room and walk down the stairs. My father is in the sitting room, rubbing Rusty's belly. The old dog whines at me, and I have to resist the urge to go pet her. _There will be time enough if I come home,_I think. _If not, I suppose I will regret this lost opportunity._

I slip out of the door after nodding to my father. Mathem is nowhere in sight, which I find slightly odd. Biting my lip, I decide that I have enough time to go over to his house. He lives next door, anyway.

I cross the street and reach his door, slapping the knocker against deep blue wood. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the knocks echoing through a mostly empty house and reverberating through the halls…

The door opens. It is not Mathem on the other side, but his mother. I give a slight nod of my head and reveal a rare smile; she ought to be given respect. She is the mother of my best friend, after all.

"Roulla!" Mrs. Tera says. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear! Mat isn't home right now."

I nod. "Ah," I say. "Is he going to the main square?"

Mrs. Tera thinks about it. "Probably," she says finally. "He was working on something in his room for a while, and then he bolted out the door like a bat out of hell." She chuckles, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling merrily. "Would you like to come in? Coffee? Tea?" She knows that I do not have any time for this, but she also knows that it is a formality which must be followed through. I am grateful to her for that. We are kindred souls, Mrs. Tera and I. We play by the rules.

I shake my head and keep the slight smile on my lips. "I am sorry," I say. "I have to go to the reapings now."

She nods understandably. "Of course you do." A conspiratorial wink. "Did you know that I voted for you? You're going to make the District so proud this year, Roulla."

My smile grows a centimeter or so. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Tera. I truly appreciate it."

She chuckles again. "You've always been so polite," she comments. "Well, off you go. I wouldn't want to make you late!"

It is time for me to make my exit. "Goodbye, Mrs. Tera," I say, stepping away from the door. "I hope to see you soon."

"I hope the same thing," she says, reaching for the door handle. I step away again and turn, waving over my shoulders. If she makes a reply, I have walked too far away to hear it.

The crowd at the reaping square is tremendous. That is no surprise, practically everyone in District Four shows up. I have heard that it is mandatory to attend the reapings in other districts, but no one makes us show up in Four. We appear because we want to. Besides, the Peacekeeper force here is woefully inadequate, and they probably couldn't muster enough men to force us into appearing.

I am stopped by a red-haired woman dressed in all white before I make it to the throngs of citizens. "Name?" she asks, efficiently. _She is not being polite at all, but this is her duty. I will let it pass._

"Roulla Saney," I reply, equally efficient. The woman raises an eyebrow.

"Saney, huh? I voted for you. Heard you were the best in the District." She writes something on one of the forms she has clutched to her chest, and nods. "The other sixteen year olds are over there," she says, gesturing with her head.

"Thank you," I reply, heading towards the others. I am beginning to think that he won't be here at all. _Mathem, where can you be?_I think, and turn, and…

_Thump-thump._

The sound my heart makes in my chest is so deafening that it drowns out the chatter of the crowd. There he is, my best friend, talking to the girl that used to be my best friend. The beautiful, terrible girl I am still so desperately in love with.

_Yiri Rawkes, you wicked thing,_I think, although the idea of beautiful Yiri being wicked is laughable. _I've missed you, you know._

I am praying that she will not turn around. She is standing with Mathem and it appears as though he is interrogating her about something. There is a strange look on her face, but she hasn't sent him away yet. Yiri is too kind to hurt anyone's feelings.

That is not true, actually. She hurt my feelings. _Hah. Hurt my feelings. She did much worse than that._

Still, I can't blame Yiri. She was surprised when I kissed her, and she did not reciprocate my feelings. It was dreadfully forward and stupid of me to do that, and I have paid for my mistake a thousand times over. I have not seen Yiri since that day; I think she's been avoiding me. Perhaps, to a certain extent, I've been avoiding her too. I know now that Yiri will never love me, and seeing her makes that pain come back.

Mathem has finished his chat. He turns from my lovely ex-best friend and sees me. His eyebrows raise, but he does not tell her. Mathem knows that Yiri and I are no longer friends, although he does not know the nature of our quarrel.

_Thank you, Mathem,_I think, watching him excuse himself. He starts towards me, and I bring my hand up in a solemn wave. _I appreciate it._

I keep my eyes fixed on Yiri, and she does not turn around.

Mathem reaches me and gives me a grin. "Hey," he says. "Nervous?" He looks awfully nervous himself, and I have no idea why.

"No," I say, because it is true. "Why were you talking to Yiri?" Saying her name makes my stomach churn. _Yiri, Yiri, Yiri…_

Mathem laughs, running a hand through his hair. No doubt about it, something is bothering him. "Oh, you know," he says. "Just asking her for the math homework."

"Mathem. We are in the same math class. Yiri is not."

Mathem is saved having to respond to this by the loud sound of the Mayor clearing his throat into the microphone. "Looks like the speech is starting!" he babbles. "Better pay attention!" He's right. It would be incredibly rude to talk while the Mayor gives his speech. I will have to ask him what's bothering him when he comes to say goodbye.

The Mayor's speech is quite boring, but I hang on every word. He speaks of treaties, and treason, and days of darkness and pain and fear. My parents were both alive during the Dark Days. According to them, they just sat at home and waited for it all to be over.

"Thank you for your time," the Mayor is saying. "Now please welcome our escort, Eli Montgomery, who will pick the name of our lucky Victor from the reaping balls!"

I watch as the escort takes the stage. From what I have seen of him, Eli is an intensely unpleasant man, but it is best not to take first impressions too seriously. I will have time enough to discover what he is really like. _If I get picked._No, I will. I am certain of it.

I raise an eyebrow when he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse under his breath, far too close to the microphone. _Never mind. It appears as though my first impressions were entirely correct._

"Well, Quell year," Eli says. "Fun, huh? Umm, yeah." He has cue cards. I don't understand why he isn't using them. "Well, err, yeah, this year… err… no volunteers, alright? Yeah, good." I don't see why that is good, but apparently it makes sense to him. _You are embarrassing District Four,_I think, darkly. _Please, for the love of all that is holy. Cue cards. You have them. Kindly use them._

He trails off into another one of his annoying pauses, giving me time to contemplate what he's just said. _It appears as though my chances are truly incredible,_I realize. _It would be ridiculous if I wasn't chosen._

"Yeah, so… Umm… Err…" He mutters another curse, enough for my eyebrows to shoot straight up to my hairline. What is this odious little man _thinking?_

With a sigh, he throws the cue cards to the ground. I sigh as well. _This is not how I planned my reaping,_I think. _I hope the sponsors can look past this._"God, let's just get this over with," Eli says. _I agree entirely ._"Ladies first…"

My stomach clenches and unclenches once. He reaches two extremely long and interestingly patterned fingernails into the glass ball, and removes a single slip, which he manages to unfold with the long nails. "Roulla Saney."

_Ah._

I breathe out and make my way out of the crowd. I hear Mathem saying something, but I am forced to ignore it as I continue on my way to the stage. Dimly, I realize that people are clapping and cheering. A warm feeling blossoms in the pit of my stomach. _This is all right,_I think. _This is not so bad._

I walk up the first three steps and widen my eyes slightly when Eli snatches my hand and drags me the rest of the way up. This is no place to make a scene, but I do not like the way he is looking at me. _Stop,_I think, trying to convey the message with my eyes. I think he sees my meaning, because he lets go of my hand.

"Wonderful," Eli mutters. I believe he is being sarcastic; I will have to ask him why later. "Now let's see which one of you… people will be joining… her." He jabs a thumb at me, and I blink before putting my hands on my hips. _You could at least address me by name! You have no reason to be so rude._

Eli saunters to the reaping balls again and plunges in his hand, removing a crumpled slip of paper. He walks back to the microphone, unwrapping the slip. For a moment, he squints at it, his mouth frantically trying to work out the printed name. "Con Rose… Ro… Rosehen… Yeah, you know what? You know who you are."

This is really too much. It is Con Rossencourte, of course, and his name was just butchered by this annoying man in front of everyone in Panem. _I am terribly sorry, Con,_I think, watching him slouch towards the stage. _This must be quite embarrassing for you._

Con finally makes it to where Eli and I are standing. To my surprise, Eli snatches my hand again, and presses it into Con's. I stiffen. Con doesn't even look at me; his eyes are on the crowd as he begins to rub circles in the back of my hand with his thumb.

This is really no time to be making a fuss about the hand holding… and the hand rubbing. If I remember, I will bring it up with him later. Besides, he might simply be trying to comfort me, or something. I should not be angry.

As I smile and wave to the cheering audience, Con turns to Eli and the two have some sort of exchange. It would be rude to listen, so I don't.

As we turn to exit the stage, I catch sight of the man hanging around in the corner. My eyes widen fractionally. _Fidget?_He is one of the mentors but I never thought… What nightmarish luck is this? Fidget is probably District Four's worst mentor.

Eli has begun to drag us towards the tents that serve as the scene of goodbyes, and I watch Fidget closely. He looks unsure of where he is, and he twitches every so often. _I suppose that is where he got his nickname,_I think. _I will have to find out his real name. Unless he really does prefer 'Fidget…'_

The trip to the tents is uneventful. Con and I are separated, and I duck into my tent and wait. It is not long before my mother and father enter. There are no tears, and my mother gets straight to the point. "Remember," she says. "I want you swinging as soon as you get off the launch plate. Your angle is deadly, so you have to be deadly all the time. Every time you're on a television set, you're deadly."

"Yes, Mother."

"For the love of God, don't mess around during the Bloodbath. Watch your back and be sure to go after as many kids as you can."

"Yes, Mother."

"I love you," she says breezily, but the words feel so fake that even she looks a little unsure of herself. After a pregnant pause, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a silver hairpin.

"Token," she says. "Have it on whenever you can."

"Yes, Mother." I am stiff when she reaches down to kiss me on the cheek. My mother heads towards the tent flap, and shoots my father a look.

"Anything you'd like to add, Grey?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "Nah," he says finally, slouching over to wrap his strong arms around me. His unshaven beard tickles the nape of my neck. "Be careful, Bunny," he whispers. I inhale. He hasn't called me Bunny for many years.

"Goodbye," Mother says, grabbing Father's arm and pulling him out of the tent. Even as they exit, Mathem is bolting into the tent. His face is bright red and the nervous air around him has magnified. I need to know what is bothering him, now.

"Mathem…" I start to say, but he cuts me off. He knows how much I despise interruptions, so I know that this must be important.

"Roulla," he says, fumbling over his words. "Before you go, I've gotta tell you…" He reaches into the back pocket of his pants and pulls out a slim black box. _Oh dear God, no…_

To make the situation more awkward, he falls to one knee. "Please, Roulla," he says, flipping open the box. There is a slim silver band nestled in fabric, attached to a beaded chain. "Tell me. Tell me that you'll be mine before you go, and I—I swear I'll be the happiest man alive."

My heart, which is already broken, fragments itself into completely irreparable pieces.

I fall to my knees beside him and throw my arms around him, feeling tears prick at my eyes. I never cry, but I am about to break his heart, and he deserves my tears. I know I cried quite a bit after Yiri's rejection of me.

"Are you—you're saying yes?" Mathem asks, his voice colored with hope and promise. "Roulla, that's… Why are you crying?"

The tears slide from my eyes. There are not many, not enough to show later, but they convey everything I am about to do to him. "Mathem," I say. "Mat. I can't love you."

His excitement wanes, it flickers, and he falls back until he is resting against his heels. His shoulders separate from my grasp. "W- Why?"

"I'm gay, Mathem," I whisper, and let the three words hang in the air between us.

The pause strains at my soul. Mathem's face has gone through every possible emotion. He begins to breathe heavily, and I half-expect him to walk away, to leave me friendless.

Instead, he leans forward and presses me against his chest.

I let a few more tears squeeze themselves from my eyes, and then I stop. I cannot look weepy for the cameras. That would completely destroy my image.

"Oh, Roulla," Mathem says. "I'm sorry, I'm _so sorry._I didn't think—I didn't realize…"

I gently extricate myself from him. "I do love you, you know," I whisper. "But not in the way you want me to."

He does leave, eventually, and no one else comes. I spend the time in the tent thinking of what he said to me before our, perhaps final, parting. _I'll love you forever, no matter what you do, Roulla,_he said. _I'll love you forever and ever._

"I will hold you to your promise, Mathem Tera," I mutter, and smile, flipping the ring on the chain around my neck. The hairpin is gone; I smashed it with my heel. I have no need of it anymore.

A Peacekeeper comes to escort me to the train. He is fat and smelly, and I do my best to ignore the way his uniform bulges. The station is empty; we are waiting on Con and the others. It is lucky that I do not have to wait long, because I am easily impatient. Con, followed closely by Eli, comes sauntering towards me. Eli steps into the train to speak to the conductor, leaving the two of us alone together.

"So you're Roulla Saney, huh?" Con asks.

I don't really know what to make of this. It is a given that we will be allies. I see no reason to talk to this boy. If he is trying to make friends, he is an idiot. This is not the time to make friends. We will end up killing each other later, or trying to.

"Yes," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

"Congratulations on getting reaped."

"Thank you."

"Ah saw you training." I stiffen. I hate the idea of him watching me, of him already knowing me. It will make being impartial to him all the more difficult. He chuckles, for some odd reason. "You're pretty neat."

I'd rather not respond, but I really have to. "Thank you," I mutter, looking at my black flats.

"So, you ready for the Games?" He is moving closer to me. Trying to set boundaries, I move away.

"Yes. I believe so."

"So, your family happy for you, doll?"

He gave me a nickname. He could not have known this, but I despise nicknames. Bunny is the only nickname I have ever responded to, and only when my father called me that.

"Please don't call me that." He steps forward again, and once more I find myself dodging away. What is he _doing?_

"Oh, come on!" Con entreaties. "Ah call everyone doll, it doesn't mean anything!" Now I am annoyed. I have made my wishes very clear, and he has ignored them. _I don't think I'm going to like Con Rossencourte…_

"Regardless," I say, through gritted teeth. "Please don't call me that." It is all I can do to keep the anger out of my voice.

His next words make me feel as if I have been slapped. "Did anyone tell you you have beautiful eyes?" Con asks, his smile making me nauseous.

I glare at him. "What do you think you are doing?" I snap. I have to stop this, right here. I have had my fill of men trying to make me fall for them today. Con has probably chosen the worst time in the history of my life to try and make a pass at me.

"Ah'm sorry," he says quickly. "Ah thought you'd appreciate the compliment."

"While you seem like a charming young man," I spit, "I am afraid I am not interested." I am so ashamed and confused and upset, my words are tripping out of my mouth in ridiculous patterns. I try to escape but Con moves forward again, cutting me off. Words are my only way out of this situation, and I will have to be brutal. "This is the Hunger Games! You realize there can only be one Victor?" IF he hasn't realized that by now, he is a moron.

"Ah guess, Ah was just…"

I am not finished, and he has cut me off. Now I am, if possible, even more annoyed. "There is no point in making stupid emotional attachments when in a couple of days the pair of us will be fighting to the death! I am willing to be your ally but I am most certainly not prepared for romantic attachment! I am surprised that a Career such as yourself would entertain the notion that such a relationship were possible in an arena of death!" That last part sounds a bit ridiculous, but I feel as though I have made my point abundantly clear. Perhaps he will leave me alone now.

"No, Ah just thought you were cute." A compliment, but it only makes me grit my teeth. "Ah wasn't expecting to be in a relationship or…"

"And if," I growl, cutting him off to show him what it feels like. "God forbid, this were merely some sort of ruse to win my affection so that you can kill me when I let my guard down…" He starts to say something, but I ignore him. For the love of God, how has he not noticed that I am _not finished?_"Then I find you despicable, Con Rossencourte, and I will have you know that while you may be charming I do not find you at all attractive and I am not interested, Mr. Rossencourte! You are _not_my type!" He really has no idea.

"Ah was just trying to be friendly," Con mutters, looking rather shamefaced. I think I am done here, but I need some sort of parting jab.

"Your behavior is quite inappropriate," I say. "I expect you to apologize before we reach the Capitol, or I suggest you find a different alliance." The open door to the train car beckons, and this time Con doesn't try to stop me as I slip away.

It is only once I am in the safety of the car that I realize I have spoken too harshly. I cannot speak for the rest of the Careers, and yet that is exactly what I have just done. I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. _I was too angry,_I realize. _I must control my emotions more carefully next time._

Making my decision quickly, I settle on a course of action. _If Con doesn't apologize to me before we reach the Capitol, I will apologize to him. That will set things right, and we can go back to being allies and not friends._

Am I wrong in thinking that my life is unnecessarily complicated?

Thinking about Con's comments, Mathem's love, Yiri's rejection, my mother's frostiness, and my upcoming week of possible death, I decide that a bit of self-pity will not hurt me in the slightest.


	6. District Five: Chosen to Kill Him

**Hey guys, having a little issues-my computer bit the dust so I'm using my husband's. Trying to get back in the swing of things-but I had some revisions etc on the other computer. I'm sorry that this is on the late side this evening...but it's rough having to resave everything etc.**

**Here goes District 5!**

**-Phoenix**

**Also, there were some DocX problems going on for the last chapter. A lot of things were left out of Con's bit, and they were just added, so go check them out. c:  
**

**-Belle  
**

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**Bastian Estatika of District 5**

**By DryBonesKing**

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_"For me, writing is exploration; and most of the time, I'm surprised where the journey takes me."_

—Jack Dann

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_The green, lush forest that filled the land is now lit on fire. The soldiers of darkness lay waste to the land around them, looting the villages within the forest and slaughtering the innocent civilians in their way. In the center of the chaos and destruction, a dark-haired man in a black cloak, covering his whole body, watches the events around him and grins. He holds onto the staff in his hands tightly._

_Another man approaches the cloaked figure. Renault, the defender of his village in the southern region of the forest. His once beautiful tanned skin and long blonde hair have been stained with blood and sweat. The man is damaged and appears to be near death, but keeps marching forward toward the cloaked figure, gripping his sword tightly._

"_Amos, your reign of terror is over!" Renault screams at the cloaked figure. "You and your minions will regret the day you stepped into this forest! For the lives of all you have slaughtered, I will destroy you!"_

_The cloaked figure, Amos, laughs in response. His laugh is dark and invokes a feeling of dread. "You think you can stop me? Surely you know nothing about magic or the power that I possess! Renault, you are a fool to challenge me! For that, you shall be burnt to the ground like this wretched forest!"_

_Rage fills Renault's face. His grip on the sword gets tighter. In mere seconds, the man is charging at Amos, prepared to strike_

"Bastian?" A voice calls out to me.

As if on cue, the figures of Amos and Renault fade to dust and vanish. The burning and war-torn forest disappears and is replaced with the dull, gray room that I sleep in. Back to reality it seems…

I set the pencil and notepad I was writing on down and turn to face the source of the voice: my older brother Benjamin.

"I just wanted to tell you that the Reaping starts in an hour…" My brother mumbles, not really looking to me.

Oh yes. The Reaping. Sometimes when I write, I lose track of what's going on in the real world. Things are starting to come back to me now. Today is the day of the Reaping, one of the worst days of the year when you live in one of the Districts. This particular Reaping, however, is the worst of them all. This is the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, the one the Capitol is calling the 'Quarter Quell'. Apparently, these quells have a certain twist to them to remind all of us living in the Districts why we suck. This Quell's twist is that the Districts had to elect who was going into the Hunger Games.

"Thanks for the reminder." I mumble politely as I readjust the glasses on my face.

_Might as well just go along with the day. Get it over with…_

I groan as I get out of my bed. I pick up a hair tie on my bedside and tie my long brown hair in a ponytail. I pick up the black cloak sitting on my bed and put it on over my clothes. I then grab my notepad, put it in a pocket in my cloak, and start walking out the door. Benjamin moves out of my way when I get to the door and walk out.

As I start to walk down the hallway, I hear a slight noise. I then hear footsteps following me. I turn around immediately and see Benjamin is coming at me with a plastic knife. The second he notices that I've turned, he charges, aiming to stab me in the chest. I'm able to block his attack however, using my left hand to block his arm and his knife from reaching me. I then use my right hand to steal the knife from him and point it at his chest. I can see sweat dripping down his face in nerves.

To others, it may seem odd that one guy tried to stab his younger brother with a knife. That's probably a sign of bad blood or something. However, Benjamin and I do not have a bad relationship whatsoever. As a matter of fact, he is one of the few people that I actually enjoy talking too! No, his attempt to stab me wasn't an act of bad blood. He's just going along with a request I asked of him after the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

The people of District Five have made it no hidden secret to my family that I am getting voted into this year's Games. It's vengeance to them. Five years ago, there was an accident in a power plant. A man, who was tired and weak from being overworked and abused by the power plant owners, accidentally connected a few wires together that weren't supposed to be. Sparks started coming out from the wires and they reacted negatively with the generator in the room. An explosion resulted, completely destroying the power plant. Forty-five workers died in the accident and hundreds of other workers were injured.

That overworked, unlucky worker that caused the explosion was my father, Theodore Estatika. At first, we thought it was a miracle that the peacekeepers didn't punish him for his mistake. Then, we realized the punishment was actually the people of our District. When the people of the District found out that my father caused the accident, they were outraged at my father and, by association, me and the rest of our family. They blamed all of us for the deaths of their family or the injuries. Since then, the people in District Five have done everything they can to make our lives a living hell. They do whatever they can to hurt us, whether it be glaring, refusing to sell merchandise, beatings, stealing from our house, or whatever crap they can come up with.

One thing they can't do is kill us. Murder attempts have been dealt with by the peacekeepers very harshly, so we are safe from that at least. But the peacekeepers can't protect me from one murder attempt: the Quarter Quell. All of District Five went out of their way to vote me into the Hunger Games this year. To them, they are finally getting their vengeance.

"You heard me get out that knife?" Benjamin asks me, interrupting me about my thoughts of the Quell.

"Yep." I reply simply, still pointing the knife at his chest.

Benjamin keeps laughing as he takes the knife back from me. "Your reflexes have definitely improved as well! And you were able to get the knife away from me and turn the tables on me. Impressive! I have to say…you stand a legit chance!"

I'll say I do as well! With the help of Benjamin and his attempts to stab me, I've definitely heightened my senses and improved my reflexes, just as he noted. The people in our District may want me dead but I certainly do not! I've been training myself ever since. I hate coming into something unprepared and I want to make sure I have as great of a shot as coming out as possible. I've worked on my skill with knives and wires in hopes that I can use them in the arena as weapons. I've also worked on improving my physical condition so I could survive a fight.

Yep, I think it's safe to say that I stand a 'legit chance' in the Games this year.

_...I hope so. I really, really, really hope so…_

Benjamin and I proceed to walk down the hallway in our small little house. We manage to move our way to the front door. My parents are standing there, looking downtrodden. They were obviously waiting for me.

"You going out now Bastian?" My mother asks me sorrowfully, her voice sounding close to tears. She knows it's the last time she'll be able to talk to me before the Games. Heck, there's a strong chance this will be the last time we get to talk to each other!

"Can't be late for my appearance in the Games, right?" I mumble quietly, attempting to make a joke of the situation. No one laughs. No one smiles. Not even me. This really isn't something to laugh about it. This is life or death.

"Bastian…" My father starts to speak, walking towards me. He grabs me and holds me tight against his chest as he tries to think of words. "…you've been preparing ever since this thing has been announced. You stand the best chance I think any District Five tribute has had…please come home. Win this thing."

My father's voice starts to get shakier. I can hear him starting to cry. I don't say anything. I only tighten the embrace between us.

"…I'm sorry Bastian for this…it's all my fault you are going in…but please…I have too much death on my hands already…please don't be one more ghost I have to see…" He is able to speak to me before going back to sobs.

The accident has haunted my father since it happened. The murder attempts only made his sorrow worse. He has changed completely ever since the explosion and has become a weakened, saddened, haunted man. Every few nights, he will wake from his sleep and scream about seeing the ghosts of all who died in the accident. They haunt his dreams. They haunt him (and us) in his daily life in the forms of the people of the District. They haunt him in his conscience. If only the other people from the District could see this. Is this really the heartless murderer you portray him as? He's just a man: a victim of circumstances. A victim of the Capitol.

"Father…if I die, it's not your fault. Don't think that. But I promise: I will come home." I tell him, rubbing his back with my hand. It's a promise I intend on keeping.

We all remain in silence for what feels like forever. Eventually, I pull myself away from my father, who is still sobbing and mumbling incoherently about the accident and his regret.

"Good luck Bastian…come home…" My mother tells me, giving me one last hug before I go off.

"Do it bro. You can do it." Benjamin mumbles, patting my shoulder while I'm hugging mother.

"I will. Thank you all…" I mumble. I pull away from them, walk to the door to our house, and open it. "…I'll make sure I come back. Until then you guys."

I close the door to the house as I walk out. Any desires to run back into the house or look behind are pushed out of my mind. I only put the black hood of my cloak over my head and proceed to walk through the streets of the District, trying to avoid being seen by anyone.

By the time I reach the square of the District, the Reaping is about to start. About five more minutes until it begins. Good thing I left when I did: it would have made this whole process worse for me to show up late to it.

I wait out the remaining time in my own little corner of the Eighteen male section. I make sure with the black cloak and hood over my face that nobody can see who I am. I would rather not have to deal with any snarky comments about my fate in the Games. Then again, I wouldn't really want to talk to anyone in general. I've never been much of a talker, even before the accident at the power plant. I'm awkward in conversation, so I tend to avoid it.

Eventually, it is time for the Reaping. The mayor comes up and gives the same speech he gives each year. I could recite it to him verbatim by now if I was asked to do so, so I zone him out. I spend each second of his speech wishing for him to hurry up already so that way we can get this crappy day over with.

Finally, his speech comes to an end and the escort takes over. Her speech is a little different than usual as she explains the rules of the Quarter Quell. She reminds the people that we voted for District Five's 'champions' this year and that the votes have been counted. She then mentions that ladies go first and she is given a piece of paper with the elected female tribute. I pay close attention to her now. I'm extremely curious on whom the District voted in for the girls and I'm also interested in seeing if she'll be any competition.

"Atalanta Zimmerman!" She reads off.

I don't have much time to register the name as I see a girl start walking forward from the sixteen section. She's thin, slightly muscular, and has red hair. The part about her that really stands out though is her attitude. She's smirking and making no attempts to hide her confidence, which is bordering on arrogance. She walks straight and confident as the District cheers for her a little.

_Ah, I see._ If I were to judge her off her physical appearance and her attitude, she's probably one of the occasional Careers that from an outlier District. They chose a girl that they think will be able to come home and be a victor.

_They chose someone who they think can kill me._

She'll be competition. _Just great._ I'm going to have to be watching her closely during the Games. She probably can kill me…I just have to make sure she doesn't get the opportunity!

By the time she is on the stage, the escort is given another piece of paper with the elected male tribute. She holds out the name and stalls the process in an attempt to bring suspense. I roll my eyes. I already know it's me. The whole District knows. No need to stall the process…

"Bastian Estatika!" She reads the name.

_Knew it._

I can hear the District starting to cheer again at the sound of my name. This cheering is different though. It's not the cheer of good luck and pride like they gave for Atalanta. This is a triumphant cheering, as if they won a war or something. They are cheering, knowing that I am going off to die.

With a sigh, I start walking away from my corner. I pull off the hood of my cloak: no point in trying to hide myself from the people. To my surprise, I don't feel as much sorrow or fear as I did up to this point. I was completely depressed when I heard the Quarter Quell twist. I was nervous during my training sessions prior to the Games. I was anxious last night, unable to sleep. Right now, though, I don't feel sadness. I feel calm, a strong contrast to the cases of paranoia I have on a daily basis. I feel determined. I feel ready to prove these people wrong.

I feel ready to win this year's Games!

I'm able to zone out the noise and the screaming from the crowd of the District. There's no point in trying to understand what the people are saying: it's all probably obscenities and pointless cries of retribution. My mind is focused on the Hunger Games, running hypothetical scenarios of this year's Games with different arenas and different tribute archetypes.

By the time I reach the stage, I'm completely focused on my scenarios. I can only slightly hear the screaming from the crowd. I ignore any attempts at conversation from the escort. I only barely register shaking hands with Atalanta and the theme of the Capitol playing. My mind is running rampant with thoughts of the Games.

Good thing I brought my notepad as my district token. The writer within me is already crafting a story for me to create. It'll be my first published work, the first one an audience shall see, but it'll be the most important piece of my life. It'll determine if I live or not. I am prepared to start writing this masterpiece immediately and making sure that I can come back alive.

I was expecting the time spent in the Justice Building to be quick and quiet. I told my family to not come to the Justice Building after I was chosen, since it might be dangerous for them with the way our District thinks of us. Since they are the only people that I thought would want to see one last time before I was sent off to the Capitol, I thought I would have no visitors. I was proven wrong literally the second visitors were allowed to come in.

The first person to come into my room is a brown-haired woman who looks as if she is thirty or something. The second she is brought into the room, she charges at me. My reflexes kick in and I push her away, preventing her from getting her hands around my neck. She hisses at me and attempts to charge at me again. This time, she is stopped by a peacekeeper that was standing by the door.

"There will be no rough housing of the tributes. If he dies, he will die in the Games. The boy will not be dying before the Games." The peacekeeper tells the woman harshly as he escorts her out.

"Your death will be enjoyed. Your father killed my husband in that factory and now it's his turn to pay! You will die kid! Atalanta will rip your heart out!" The woman hisses at me while the door to my room is closed.

Once again, the accident from five years ago continues to haunt the life of my family. More visitors come to my room, all hissing and screaming at me for the accident. Another woman comes screaming into the room, sounding just like the one who tried to kill me a second ago. One man yells at me for all of the injuries he received in the factory explosion. An older man informs me that he will enjoy watching my father's reaction to my death, for he had lost his son in the accident and he wants to see how my father reacts. After him, even more come…

It seems as if the entirety of District Five has come together at the Justice Building in order to give me a collective 'screw you.'

During each visitor session, I say nothing. I only stare at each visitor with the emotionless, thoughtful expression that I imagined I looked like at the Reaping. It's not in my nature to be confrontational or talk much, so I just zone them out and pretend as if they aren't talking.

Besides, listening to each of them speak only gets me angry. They are all fools, blinded by their sorrow at the accident. My father made a careless mistake in the power plant five years ago, yes, but he did not do it intentionally. He did not murder the forty-five victims of the accident, nor did he want to injure hundreds of workers. My father was among the injured as well! Still, he is treated like a murderer and scum for his actions. So is my mother. So is Benjamin. So am I. That's why I'm here: because the people think my father is a murderer. Even if he was, though, how does that make me responsible? What did I do to cause all of this?

I hate it when people do not think properly: when people make rash decisions or decisions based on ignorance. The people of District Five judge my family harshly on the basis that my father killed the victims in the accident. The deaths were an accident, not on purpose. My father made a mistake as a result of exhaustion and being overworked from the owners of the power plant. If anything, I'd say they are the true murderers! And since the Capitol basically owns the factories, it's very safe to say the Capitol is the true murderer! But no, the Capitol had a scapegoat this time in the form of my father. They've ruined his life in addition to the families of the victims. Just like they've been ruining the lives of every family in the District since the beginning of Panem…

By the time the last angry visitor leaves, I am left alone in silence. Any anger that was developing within me is calming down. Silence has that effect on me. I love it when things are quiet, when there are no sounds. It is in this kind of environment that I can truly think. Where I can let my imagination and my mind work.

I take out the notepad I have as my district token. Sadly, I do not have a pen on me, since I'm only allowed one token. I'm certain I will be able to borrow one on the train and at the Capitol. For now, though, I need to brainstorm. I need to work on this story! I have the perfect ending already planned as well. I'll just fill in the details before it as they come to me. But for now, the ending will do...

_Where twenty-four stood, only one remains. The audience watches attentively, waiting to see their champion._

_The cameras close in on the sole survivor. The audience erupts in confusion and shock. It is not the dashing young boy from District One, who was the fan favorite from the beginning. It was not the boy from District Eleven, the suspected dark horse tribute. It wasn't even Atalanta, who proved her strength early on in the Games._

_All is silent when Bastian Estatika leaves the arena as its sole survivor, its victor._

* * *

**Atalanta Zimmerman of District 5**

**By lerontopithecusrosalia**

* * *

_"The more difficulties one has to encounter, within and without, the more significant and the higher in inspiration his life will be."_

—Horace Bushnell

* * *

Warm, bright rays of sunlight stretch themselves into my bedroom greedily as I wake up. I take a deep breath, blink my eyes, and shakily pull myself out of bed, pushing aside the soft bedspread. Looking out the window, I can see that the sun has just barely risen, surrounded by nothing but the soft blue sky, despite the fact that it is hardly past six. Rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead wipes off some of the sweat that has formed overnight, only to be quickly replaced by more.

I hear birds chirping amongst the trees outside my window, in my backyard. The mood of this is too happy, considering what will happen later on today. In a matter of hours, the entire district will be standing in the town square, waiting to see who will be unlucky enough to be reaped into The Hunger Games. It's this cheerful atmosphere that makes me question whether or not I'm seeing the real sun.

Never mind that, right now I need to be focused. Today is The Reaping, and most likely, I'm the female tribute from District Five. I've trained my entire life for this day, for the moment my name is called, and I step on the stage. It's all about first impressions today, and if I am to make a good one, I'll need to seem amazing, mostly because the Careers are guaranteed to be impossibly tough.

So, instead of trying to calm myself down, I simply exit the room, and head outside. I know exactly what I am doing, having a last minute training session. I'd like to think of myself almost as well trained as the average career. At least I make it seem like I can throw a knife like I was born to do it.

Almost automatically, my hand reaches down to grab the bag of knives, which are always right in front of the door. I hold the sack loosely, letting it move around as I continue to listen to the birds, wondering what the Capitol could possibly have in store for the tributes in the Quell. So far, all I know about it is that people are voted in.

In the Career Districts, people probably campaigned for their spot, just for the fame. Fools. Leave it to them to underestimate the power of the Capitol. I mean, come on, there was a maze in the arena last year, as well as a grave yard. The Game Makers are certainly creative, and with there being a Quell this year, I'm sure there will be no word in the dictionary that could describe their efforts once the arena is unveiled.

In the Career's defense though, I've kind of been advertising to be a tribute, but only subtly. And at least I have a reason. To be alone. They're just doing it for the fame and fortune. Arrogance can be one's worst enemy, and that will prove fatal to the Careers once it gets down to it. And they think they're the only ones fully prepared for this. Well, look at me, I've been training for as long as I can remember, and if a mocking jay flew by, even if it was fifty yards away, I could still nail it without a second thought.

After I'm some distance from my house, I untie the crude string, and my three knives, which have become worn over the years, tumble out in a neat pile. I pick up the one on top, and twirl it around, letting it dance in my hand. For most people, attempting to manipulate it in the way I could would leave them with several bloody wounds. I don't know why I twirl it; it's just a habit I guess, something I do before I throw. It helps me warm up though, and after last night, that's exactly what I need, warming up. After taking a deep breath, I push all my thoughts aside, clearing my mind. Seconds later, I release.

The cold blade is the last thing I feel as the knife propels itself through the air. It lodges into a limb above me, sending the entire branch crashing down, and landing with a heavy thud. The tiny leaves blend in with the ground, leaving only what appears to be a long stick, decorated with bright fruits. I lean down and pull out my knife, causing tiny shavings to spew out from the slit it created. With my free hand, I pluck a ripe apple, glowing red, and wash it with my water container, kept in the same bag as my knives.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," I mutter to no one in particular as I take the first bite. Juice smears against the corners of my mouth, waking up my taste buds. Just one bite of this is enough to keep me up. That's why I train back here; I can go as far into the night as I wish, as long as I have an apple ready, I could really stay awake forever, feel the slight breeze shifting through the trees, look at the brightest star, mushed in with the mix of other balls of light. Just feel free, out of the unintended prison, otherwise known as my bedroom. And it's not just the juice that keeps me awake, but the thrill of it. Seeing the knife hit its target, even in the limited light available.

Everyone has a part of them that no one can take away, and this is mine. Sure, someone can cut down these trees, steal my knives, make me mentally unstable- as if I'm not already—but they can't take away my memories. No, that's something untouched, something that not even most ingenious inventions could wipe away. After a couple more bites, I set the apple back down on my bag.

Now it's time to get serious, this could be my last training session before I'm sent off to the Games. So, I narrow my emerald green eyes, and wipe my long red tresses out of my face, pursing my lips in concentration.

Honestly, the hardest part about training is finding a target. When I first started, it wasn't a problem. I'd just chuck a knife at the tree in front of me, scooting back a little farther each time the blade stuck. Back then I was only five, but now, I'm sixteen, and my goals are much higher than they were then.

Recently, I've taken to slicing apples down from the tree, dangling about sixty feet in the air. My family's better off than most, so I don't sell them, just save them for later. It's a good thing my aim is nearly perfect, because if I missed, it's likely the knife would stick on a branch, and as good of a climber as I am, I wouldn't be too happy about having to get it.

So, I twirl my knife, as always, poised in what I consider perfect position. A snap of the wrist sends the knife flying up, barely avoiding collisions with scattered branches, and, in a neat, professional arch, it sends the apple crashing down. The great thing about this training exercise is that not only am I practicing with a knife, I'm running to catch the falling apple, as well as working with hand eye coordination.

The apple easily lands in my hands, and the knife hits a couple feet away. It's this that proves to me that I'm ready, adrenaline courses through my veins. At this moment, I feel invincible, like nothing's standing in my way. I feel like even if I was sent into the arena, armed through the entire thing with nothing but a slingshot, I would still win. It's short lived though, as my thoughts are interrupted by my mom's hoarse voice. She's been sick lately, skipping work for three days now just because of her throat.

"Atalanta," She crows, opening the back door just enough for her to poke her scrawny head out. Her hair's bright red, just like mine, but she has blue eyes and pale skin. There's barely visible wrinkles on her face, and frown lines that run across her forehead.

She narrows her eyes into focus, trying to differentiate my red head from the trees. I don't know what's disorienting her more, the fact that she's puking at least once an hour, or the time. If my mom had her way, she would still be in bed, but her stomach kept her up for a good part of last night, and most of the morning.

"Atalanta," My mother repeats, looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. I set the apple down on my bag, and lift my head up, staring her straight in the eye.

"Yes," I say in a questioning voice. It's not like I don't know what she's about to tell me. Mom's just been in a mood lately, and it would be wise not to get in her way. So, I pull off the fake tone, which seems almost robotic against my tongue.

"You're going to go over to Avis's to get ready for the Reaping." She says in a dry voice. I nod as she begins to cough into her withering hand.

Mom smiles weakly, catching me off guard. She almost never smiles, in her eyes, everything is serious. Mom doesn't understand jokes, and hates accidents. If you do something stupid in front of her, instead of laughing, she'll simply scold you, pale eyes sharp, mouth curved in a frown. And if someone brings up an instance of that sort in front of her, she'll cough, hinting to change the conversation. It seems like the only time Mom is ever happy is when she is talking about her family. When Dad was promoted, she couldn't stop talking about how proud she was. And she genuinely smiled.

I hear the screen door close, signaling that Mom has left. I finish eating one of the apples, savoring every juicy bit, and just leave the core on the grass for the birds to eat. After putting the other one away, I place the bag back in its spot, pretending that there might be a next time. And then I leave the backyard, opening the fence gate. I hear a loud clash as the wood collides. And for some reason, I smile, sensing the fact that I may never hear the familiar banging of the fence that's been so common in my ears.

Personally, I hate getting ready for the Reaping, everyone is too tense to be able to laugh, much less crack a joke, and any lame attempts at starting a conversation are quickly quashed, because some way or another, they all seem to lead to the reaping after the first few sentences.

But out of all of my friends, Lyric has the most reason to worry, because people could tell her all they want, but she would still know that she was destined to be a bloodbath victim if her name was ever drawn. And I can't help but feel like it's my fault. She wasn't always bedridden, forced to stay in a tiny room without ever seeing the sun. No, before that storm, Lyric could run with Avis, Birgitta, and me. Now, as I walk past the tree stump, the scene replays itself in my head.

I was seven when it happened. School had just let out, and a horrific storm was underway. It seemed as though the clouds were trying to form huge balls of water, and passing them around. But soon afterwards, they found the sphere's too heavy, and decided to throw them all down instead. Lightning could be heard at least every ten seconds, causing Birgitta to cover up her overly sensitive ears as we ran. At the time, the four of us were heading towards my house, the closest one to the school, trying to outrun the thick of the storm. Rain collected itself on the sidewalk, causing my frenzied feet to nearly slip.

For awhile, I thought we were going to make it back uninjured. But I was so wrong. Ten minutes in, a huge bolt came hurtling down, illuminating the otherwise dreary street, and hitting a maple tree. I narrowly avoided the huge trunk, which fell down almost as fast as the lightning that struck it. And while I escaped the situation unscathed, Lyric felt the tree's power full force. It pinned her back down on the thick concrete, dumping her on the ground head first. Lyric's hands started clawing, searching for a rope that simply wasn't there. Her legs thrashed against the soaked ground, scraping them to the point where it left a permanent scar.

Desperately, Birgitta, Avis, and I tried to pull her out, but even our combined efforts proved futile. By the time she got out, Lyric was unconscious, legs splayed in odd, unnatural positions. To this day she is bedridden, unable to move on her own. Getting out of her bed, off of her soothing contraptions, and onto her tiny wheelchair is visibly painful, something she only has to do for Reapings. She might as well stay home, because no one in their right mind would vote her in.

Now, walking by this tree stump, I glare at the permanent reminder of what happened that night. For not holding on, for not clinging to its trunk like it should have. For letting go, and letting Lyric feel the full effect. For killing Lyric, because even though she's still breathing, she's not living. No, in theoretical terms, she's been dead for nine cold years. But what's done is done, and there's really nothing I can do about it. Nothing. And that's why I hate it.

Now nearing Avis's house, I center my slouched position, putting my ears on full alert. As great as Avis is, her family is something I'd rather not deal with, and if sneaking around her house is what it takes to avoid them, that's what I'll do. I slowly open the back door, which is never locked on the Reaping. The woods creeks, making a sound much louder than I'd like. Creeping up the carpeted stairs, I enter the first room on the right- Avis's room.

"Atalanta, where have you been?" Birgitta asks, lowing her eyebrows, which were previously creased in worry.

"Training," I answer simply. She already knows all about that, we've actually tried practicing together, before I discovered that she has two left hands. With a slight nod, Birgitta gestures towards Avis, who has just finished brushing her thick black hair.

"Atalanta," She says happily. "Your mom sent the dress last night." Avis holds up a long, sleeveless green dress with white flats. I take it out of her hands, feeling the long, silky material sooth my hands.

"I'll be right back," I say, and change into my reaping outfit. Coming out, I can tell Avis and Birgitta are trying to smile, rushing compliments about my appearance. But I can tell something's up, this isn't like them.

"You know, there's no reason to be worried." I speak softly. Looking up at them as they start to frown.

"We have every right to be worried." Birgitta starts. "You're our friend, and you know you've probably been voted in."

"So, I can handle myself. Normally there's only a couple tributes to worry about, and this year, I think I'll be one of them." Avis tightens her lips, letting Birgitta do all the talking. It's something she's good at, while she can't throw a knife five feet in front of her, she could convince people that she had.

"You're forgetting something," Birgitta says pointedly. "This isn't like all the other Hunger Games. The tributes are voted in. Do you really think District Five will be the only one to take advantage of that?" She doesn't wait for a response.

"What about the Career pack? They're going to be better than ever, considering that their districts probably had tournaments to see who would get the honor of being voted in. Don't get me wrong, you can handle a lot of really good tributes, but I'm not so sure you can live in an arena with six powerful tributes working together." Not sure of how to respond, I answer with something I quickly regret.

"Let's just save this for the Justice Building." Birgitta looks at me angrily, shocked at what I just said.

"You think this isn't important," She asks, not bothering to hide her hurt. "I may be horrible at throwing, but I don't underestimate, and ignorance can kill just as easily as a lack of defense. You've seen the toughest career tributes crumble down, simply because they were too arrogant to stop idolizing themselves and look at their competition." She snaps.

"Sorry," I say. "It's just that, your speech isn't helping. I realize that there's going to be some especially tough competition this year, but saying that isn't going to change it." Birgitta opens her mouth, about to respond, but is quickly interrupted by Mrs. Aaron's shrilly voice.

"Let's go girls," she sings, acting like we're kids about to be taken to an ice cream shop. I guess she does it to lighten the mood, because although she's naive, she knows I'm one of the most likely tributes to be entering the Games. The three of us file down wordlessly.

After checking in, I enter the roped off section for sixteen year old girls, while Avis and Birgitta head off with the other seventeen year olds. I cast them a solitary glance, trying to tell them that it will be fine, but am interrupted by the mayor, his deep voice echoing against the outlying buildings. He begins to talk about the rebellion, which were followed by the Dark Days, and ultimately caused The Hunger Games, a speech that he gives every year. Really, I've heard it so much that I could be saying it right now, down to the very last word. I can see a few distant gazes, showing that people are zoning him out. But my mind's trained on focusing, and so unlike them, I'm soaking in every detail.

I can see everyone regain consciousness as the escort's bubbly voice takes over. She begins to explain the rules of the Quarter Quell, which is something new, and worth paying attention to. After reminding the people that the tributes were voted in a few weeks ago, and that they have been counted, their voices have been heard. She makes it sound noble, like being voted in is an honor, although in most cases, tribute translates to one word: corpse. Her overly manicured hand unrolls a thin, bright pink slip of paper, which reads the name...

"Atalanta Zimmerman," she shrills.

That's my cue.

I step out through the leeway that has already formed, smirking. Reapings always give reliable first impressions, and if I want a good one, I'll have to act like a career. I hear a low cheer, taking in the fact that the District is proud of me. They think I have a chance at this. And yet I'm the one being called ignorant. I straighten up my back, head held slightly high, in an arrogant position. My pace is even as I carry myself up on the stage. And then the escort's opening the other slip of paper.

"Bastian Estatika," She breathes in an even, measured voice.

Estatika, I recognize that name. A huge roar erupts from the crowd, almost immediately after his name is pulled, but it isn't the same kind of cheer I got. No, this is more malicious, more like a death chant. These people want him to die. And that's when it hits me. His father caused an accident, resulting in the death of forty five people, and injuring hundreds of others.

Normally, I'd put something like this aside, but the happiness is just too much. No one should be celebrating over the death of someone they probably didn't know. Sure, there probably are a couple of people who actually, really understand him, but not the entire district. And, despite hearing the crowd's roaring approval, Bastian somehow manages to keep a normal, undisturbed composure, most likely obtained after years of mistreatment.

It's the overall attitude that angers me the most, and so I react in the only way I know how. I glare. Not at the crowd, not at Bastian, just in the general direction. Even I don't know who my glare is directed at, I just now that it's there. They want me to kill him, but if I have my way, someone will kill him before I have the chance to.

The crowd is still cheering over the probable death sentence as Bastian forces himself up the stairs. His hands seem still, almost limp, as we shake, like he's pretending he isn't here, that there's no one else around him. That may work now, but not in the Games. So here I am, reaped two minutes ago, and already I've found weakness in one of my opponents. I can tell he's zoned out, not caring about what anyone else thinks about him.

And no, I don't have sympathy for him, just anger at my district. How can they call themselves rational, when they're willing to kill an innocent person over a horrible accident that he didn't even cause? They'd fit right in with the Capitol citizens. Cheering over the death of an unfortunate person, like Bastian, and betting on someone who might win, like me. I imagine them all with a variety of wigs, a splash of neon orange on the baker, and hot pink on one of the peace keepers. Neutral colors like black and white mix with turquois and chartreuse forming a secondary rainbow. Swirls of pink and yellow circle their skin, forming complex patterns that join up to create vines or flowers.

But at this point, it doesn't really matter what I think of them, and long lost Capitol citizens or not, they're still from the same district. Right now, all I care about is living, and if I want to live, I'll have to save these thoughts for another time, because I can't afford to be caught zoned out. And if I do win, I expect them to treat me like a hero of sorts, and if I don't want to go crazy about it, I need to get used to their vicious side. So, I smirk, and step off the stage.

I'm ushered towards the Justice Building before I can finish my thoughts, a group of Peacekeepers surrounding me, as if I'd try to escape. No one in their right mind would do that. But then again, no one in their right mind would cheer over the death of someone undeserving of it. So maybe I'm simply in the wrong mind, in a perfectly good way.

I see Birgitta and Avis first. Their solitary, calm figures seem alien to me, as if I've already experienced the Hunger Games.

"I'm sorry," Birgitta says as soon as the doors slam shut. I shake my head.

"It's fine," I say. Birgitta smiles, taking in the fact that I've openly forgiven her right away. This time it's Avis who speaks.

"You have to get your hands on a knife. I know you'll win if you do." I nod, smiling slightly at her confidence in me, committing her comment to memory. I'll probably need to remind myself of it in future pep talk.

"Thanks," I manage.

"You can handle it you know," Birgitta starts absentmindedly. "The Hunger Games. It's just another thing in your way. And think about it this way. The more difficulties you have to encounter, the more inspirational you become."

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Avis echoes. The peacekeepers come in, ready to escort the two out of the room.

"Take care of Lyric for me," I call. And that's it, the doors close, leaving me behind. And then I'm left with only memories of them. That could have been the last time I ever see them. Then Mom and Dad step through the doors, hand in hand. Tears are welling up in Mom's eyes, but Dad doesn't look at all shaken.

"Please come home Atalanta," My mother whimpers. She comes closer, pulling in for a hug, but I avoid it and pat her on the back.

"I'll try," I say calmly. My dad looks at me quizzically.

"And don't feel sorry for yourself. Feeling sorry doesn't get you anywhere, it just drags you down. Stay alert, and you'll be fine."

I nod, smiling at him slightly, and showing him as much courage as I can muster.

"And, I'd prefer it if you got a knife, but a weapon is better than no weapon. Remember your survival lessons, stay light on your feet, and don't bite off more than you can chew. Always know what your opponent is thinking, and don't ally with anyone unless you can trust them without a hint of doubt. Just rely on your knowledge, common sense, and a knife, and I'll expect to see you again in a month." Dad finishes, trying to pour out everything he knows that could be beneficial. As the peacekeepers walk in, Dad pats me on the back and helps my mom up.

I'm quickly led onto the train, giving me time to think. Remembering the Reaping, the conversations in the Justice Building, and then the assurance. The assurance that I can win. Dad and Birgitta are absolutely right. I can win this thing. And I will. I just need a knife. And once I get one, no one, not even the best career, will be able to stop me. No, once I have a knife, I'll be invincible. And so, as I board the train, I'm smirking, but this time, it isn't fake.


	7. District Six: Façades

**Hellooo! I usually don't do the updates, but I think Nina is still struggling with her computer. Technology, man. Can't rely on anything.  
**

**Nothing really to announce, except we're already getting messages regarding the 26th Hunger Games even though this one's just started. What a doozy! I think the competition will be even fiercer next time around!  
**

**Anyway, these are a fine set of reapings, if I do say so myself. Here goes District 6!  
**

**-Belle  
**

* * *

**Edrick Quillheart of District 6**

**By ThunderstruckMV15**

* * *

_"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible,  
make violent revolution inevitable."_

— JFK

* * *

The window creaks as I slowly lift my large hiking bag of supplies up and out of the second story window. The bag knocks a couple of old, tarnished shingles loose as it rolls off the roof and onto the moist ground below. I hoist myself up and out of the window, trying not to make any noise because my mother is a light sleeper.

I am tall and brawny, but not bulky. My short, dark brown hair is always messed up and spiked at the front. I have rough, crude facial hair that I refuse to shave except for once a week. My vivid green eyes seem like they would glow in the dark, and my thin, straight eyebrows are always low, just above my eyes, giving me a perpetual angry look.

Once out on the roof, I try to think light thoughts, praying I won't fall through the rotting wooden surface of my house and ruin my chances of escaping that damned hell-hole I'm living in. I creep up to the edge, spotting my bag eight feet below, and jump. I land on my feet, but lose my balance and fall over. I stand up, not hurt, and grab my thirty-pound hiking knapsack before running off into the inky darkness of the woods.

I had raided the pantry the night before. It was my final step before my escape the next night. I knew my parents would not go into the pantry just yet, because they had just bought more food and would not need to replace anything old before a couple of days. I have plenty of food, a flashlight, a canteen filled with well water, and, of course, a very advanced first-aid kit. After all, I live in District 6 which specializes in medicine.

I also brought my one Shaw Lionels book. Lionels was the best sociologist in the Capitol, and I had managed to get my hands on a copy of his latest book through a man named Tyrell.

Tyrell is someone in District 6 who sells things that are apparently smuggled out of the Capitol by double-agents in District 1. How he manages to get his hands on this stuff, no one will ever know, but he does it.

Sociology is my new-found passion. I find it very interesting and often wish I could become one some day. There is a problem, though. I freeze up anytime I come in contact with anyone socially. No one knows about my dream yet, but I am certainly afraid to tell anyone about it. They would make fun of me, ridicule me. I know they would.

It was two years ago that I ran away from home, and I never looked back. I was seventeen years old, had a job, and even a friend. Yes, _a_ friend. As in one person. Everyone else except my one friend hates me. Anyone else who knew me knew that I was the socially awkward sociologist. They all hated me, not just because of my hypocrisy, but because of something else, something I can't hide. No matter what.

Two years ago, shortly after I made my home inside an old abandoned hut, I took up a free spot on the harvesting squad. On weekdays, I spent all day carrying medicinal plants in the many hectares of field in District 6. I would start walking, usually about five kilometres, out into the field at six in the morning, and make multiple trips back and forth lugging the crop in a large woven sack.

After about three months on the job, the overseer came to me.

"We have too many walkers now," he said in his raspy voice, "Congrats, you've been promoted. You can crop the plants with this." The overseer went into the tool shed next to the crop-house where all the plants were stored. He came back with a large, menacing metal object that looked like a long hook attached to a slightly curved wooden staff.

"It's called a scythe," he said, "You use the metal blade on the end to hook the plants at the stem and cut 'em down. Put the crop you cut down in a pile, and the walkers come and get it, just like you used to do.

I had a question on my mind, and I had forced it out of myself: "Why haven't I seen one of these before?"

"We keep them hidden from the walkers so the hooligans we hire don't get any ideas. That's why we have specific times when the walkers come, which reminds me, keep that thing away from the walkers at the top of every hour. I guess you'll have to keep an eye on the sundials now."

I nodded briskly, and the overseer handed me the scythe.

"I guess you better get movin', it's seven o' clock in ten minutes."

I had put on some muscle carrying the crop during the few months I was a walker, so I guess the overseer thought I was the right guy to promote.

I spent the the rest of my cropping career teaching myself how to wield the scythe when other croppers weren't looking. Most of the time I'd be doing my job, just chopping down plants like I was supposed to, but sometimes I'd get away from everyone else and slash and hack the air wildly until I became comfortable with the weapon. I wasn't an expert, but I decided I'd be able to defend myself with a scythe easily.

_'If I'm ever reaped into the Hunger Games,'_ I had thought, _'At least I'll have something to defend myself with.'_ The thought of it still made me uneasy. I knew if I did have to participate in the Games, there would be no guarantee that even a single scythe would be available.

I had managed to keep my job as cropper for more than an entire year after I had earned it. I'm seventeen, and I feel I'm finally coming of age.

* * *

As I walk alone in the field, miles ahead of everyone else, I can see the sun starting to become harsh, even though it's still morning. I swivel my head around to look for the spot I'd started to crop the day before. About a hundred yards away, I see a group of tall plants ripple as if they'd been hit with something, and then they fall down behind the rest of the crop. I break into a run, but come to a halt when I see a girl chopping at my group of plants. I hide behind a pile of crop near the girl to observe.

I whisper to myself as I recall my latest findings from my Shaw Lionels book: _"Flaring nostrils, brash movements, she's angry."_

The girl is very pretty. She has long, wavy brown hair that goes halfway down her back. Her slender figure is distinguished in her white tank top, and her long legs are easily noticeable with the jean shorts she is wearing.

A twig snaps from under me as I move to get closer. She hears the sharp snap of the twig and stops her hacking. She turns around, and she must have seen me because she comes storming towards the pile of crop. I hear the rustling of the grass stop right in front of me. I open one eye, then the other. The girl is staring down at me, scythe in hand, and livid. I smile weakly.

"That's, uh, that's the group of crop I started on yesterday," I say. I regret what I said as soon as the last word leaves my mouth. I was sure the girl was going to bash the giant blade right into my skull, but she instead drops it on the ground beside her and thrusts out her hand. I just stare at it.

"You gonna take the hand or what?" she snaps. I look at the ground and don't move. Realization lights up on the girl's face. "Oh, you're that kid who's the shy sociologist," she says in what I perceive as a condescending tone.

Now I'm mad. I slam my hands on the ground and stand up in one swift movement. "Okay, look here, I might not be able to make your stupid small talk, but I don't have to be good at that to be good at the theory behind it."

"Whoa, whoa. I didn't mean anything, I actually think you're pretty cool. I don't know how everyone else can judge you like they do. My name's Aly."

I look at the ground again and speak softly. "...You're the first person I've met who doesn't think I should be chucked in a freaking asylum."

"Hey, no problem." There is an awkward pause. "So what's your name?"

I look up at Aly and smile, then laugh. "It's Edrick."

"Well, Edrick, want to help me out with this crop?"

"Uh, sure." I want to add something to what I said, but can't think of anything relevant, so I just blurt something out: "How come you're angry, Aly?"

"Oh, that Hornslund kid was teasing me again."

Colby Hornslund, another cropper, is the one person that pisses me off the most. He's the one who started teasing me about my dream to become a sociologist in the first place. He got everyone else to do it, too. It was odd, Hornslund is so awful, but everyone still likes him. Every time I see him, I just want to hit him. I almost did once, too, when Hornslund first made fun of me to my face. I had stood over him, my fist raised. I really was two seconds away from punching his teeth in, but Hornslund immediately stopped laughing and ran off. Now he just ridicules me when I'm not around.

I look to the sky and scoff. "Hornslund," I mumble under my breath. I look back at Aly who seems to be breaking down.

"He teased me about my mother," she squeals, on the verge of bursting into tears, "She's got signs of Alzheimer's."

I see a tear roll down her face as her lips trembled. I walk up to her slowly and hesitate before holding out my hand. I don't know why I chose to hold my hand out, but she takes it and pulls me into a hug. I'm taken completely off-guard by this and fidget a little bit.

All of a sudden, Hornslund and the other croppers are right behind. Hornslund, of course, has his stupid little grin pasted on his face.

"Aww, looks like big Edrick's found a little playmate," says Hornslund mockingly.

"Get out of here, Hornslund, we don't need any more of your shit," says Aly, all of a sudden angry again.

He is about to continue, but sees the look on my face, and sinks back into himself.

"Come on, guys," he says the all the other croppers, "Let's get out of here."

Hornslund turns on his heel and starts back where he came from, but I know better. I listen closely to what they're saying as they walk off.

"He's such a loser, no wonder he can only make friends through me. The damned kid wants to be a sociologist, eh? He can't even communicate with anyone else! He's a freaking primate!" cackles Hornslund with his friends.

I break away from Aly and start to jog towards Hornslund again, then I sprint. I tackle Hornslund from behind and start punching him. Hard. Over and over and over again. He cries out in pain, and he starts bleeding. Once I think he's had enough, I stop.

"So you just can't help yourself, can you?" When I'm angry, I have no problem talking to other people. Hornslund's nose must have broke, because it's gushing blood now. I look around at the rest of the croppers, who stand back, not wanting anything to do with my rampage. I look back at Hornslund.

"You think you can just go around laughing your ass off at everyone else's problems, eh? You think you're _fucking_ invincible! Well, you even think about trying something like this again, I'll happily test that theory, got it?"

At this point, Hornslund just laughs.

"What do you think is so fucking funny now?"

"You've made a huge mistake, bucko," says Hornslund with a grin on his face, revealing his now bloodied gums.

"How do reckon I made a mistake, tough guy?"

"You must have forgotten."

"What?"

"You stupid son of a gun."

"What?" I bellow, raising my fist again.

"The Quarter Quell reaping's tomorrow. You must have forgotten. People vote the tributes in this time. Guess who I'm voting for?"

"Why should I give a damn who you're voting for?"

"Because it's you. And whoever I vote for, everyone votes for. I have that kind of power, buddy, and I've had just about enough of you."

I let go of Hornslund's shirt, take my knee off of his chest, and get up. I look down at him, and he was still smiling his blood-red smile.

"I'll tell everyone what you just did to me, and guess what? Everyone's gonna want to vote your ass in to go to the Hunger Games, and there's nothing you can do about it. So go ahead, beat me up some more, 'cause when I get back to the village, everyone's gonna know, and it's just going to be better for me."

"Why, you little worm!" Aly pipes up from behind me. Hornslund gets to his feet and laughs openly.

"Have fun in the arena, Edrick. I'll be watching." With that, Hornslund wipes his nosebleed on his shirt, and he and his gang turn around and leave. Aly tries to run after him, but I hold her back.

"We have to do something!"

"What the hell are we going to do, Aly? He's the most popular guy in District 6!"

"Edrick," she says weakly, "I just met you, and I already like you. You have social potential."

"That's not going to do me much good in the arena, I'll...lose...for sure. And I can only talk to you because you were nice to me."

"Yes, it will do you good! If we can't stop Hornslund from voting you in, I guess you'll just have to win. I'll help you, Edrick. I'll prepare you. Socially."

* * *

I sit with Aly on my front porch. I have my Shaw Lionels book out again, and I'm studying people as they walk by. Some are angry, some happy, others I just can't read. I'm still learning.

As I'd expected, Hornslund had managed to tell half the district about his run-in with me. Some people looked at me briefly, and then sped up and shook their head. I had guessed those were the people Hornslund had already talked to.

"You said you could wield your scythe pretty well, didn't you?" Aly asks me suddenly.

"Yeah, I've been able to do that for a while, but I don't know how good I am."

"As long as you have experience with some kind of weapon."

I just nod and go back to my book, but then I notice a group of girls clustered some fifty feet away. They're looking at me. No, they're looking at Aly.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"They're my friends, do you want to meet them?"

"Uhh, no. I'm good."

"Edrick, I don't mean to sound harsh, but if Hornslund does manage to get you into the arena—"

"—he'll manage—"

"—then you have to know how to make alliances."

"I—I guess you're right."

"Don't worry, they're nice."

"I'm sure they are. Unless Hornslund's gotten to them."

Aly grabs my hand and practically drags me toward the group of girls. She introduces me to them one-by-one, but all I can manage is a quick wave.

"Hi, Edrick," says a blonde girl in a blue blouse, "We just wanted to tell you that we heard about you standing up for Aly. We're all on your side."

"Th-thanks," I say briskly. The girls giggled. There was an awkward pause. "D-do you girls w-want to come—" I search for something to say, "Uhh," my face flushes red, and my fists clench up, "Sit on the porch with Aly and I?" he said a little too loudly and hotly. This time a red-head spoke with a smile, revealing perfect, straight teeth.

"Yeah, we'd like that, Edrick."

The reaping is held in front of the district hall. I had dug up my one dress shirt I had stowed away in a small closet and dusted it off.

Aly had gone back to her own house to prepare too. I don't know what to make of our encounter the day before. It was the first time that anyone had even remotely taken interest in me.

"The way you are, Edrick, so shy, you'll never get far in life. You'll be stuck with the same lonely life you have now forever if you don't put yourself out there," my parents had said far too often.

When I was just fifteen, I ran away. It felt like my parents just never really gave a crap about me. They blamed me for my crippling shyness, even though they could never give me social advice when I asked for it. I had always felt so alone—no, I felt less than alone. Neglected.

I had figured living alone would be an upgrade. That's when I raided the pantry and gathered some survival gear—I didn't know how long I would have to live in the woods, after all—and escaped into the cloak of night. I left no note, and I never heard from my parents again. Sometimes I wonder whether they even bothered looking for me. I doubt it.

* * *

At two o' clock, I make my way to the district hall. All of the other kids are walking the same direction as me, yet they keep their distance. Hornslund must've gotten to everyone.

The district hall is at the center and back of a humongous cobblestone courtyard where many people hang out when they aren't hard at work. I haven't been to the district hall very many times before, or even in the courtyard, for that matter. Pretty much only for reapings and the occasional time my parents had dragged me along to do errands.

Today, there is a giant stage set up directly in front of the district hall. There are decorations draped from the stage, the hall itself, and the over-sized monitors on each side were they play the same video they always did each year at the reaping.

Everyone is ordered by Peacekeepers to go to their respective sides of the courtyard by gender. I'm astounded by how many Peacekeepers are actually there. Why would anyone need so much security for a bunch of adolescents? Only the Capitol could answer that.

A man, the escort from the Capitol who would take the two tributes on the train for the long ride to the Capitol named Drake Harlem, traipses onstage and stops in front of the microphone.

He's a scary man. His skin is dyed royal blue, and he has piercings all over his body, but there are two piercings that stood out above everything else, and I can't stop myself from staring at them. They are a couple of mini ivory elephant tusks that extend from his nose, and they look absolutely ridiculous. I will never understand the fashion trends the Capitol get into these days.

"Welcome one, welcome all to the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, and the first ever Quarter Quell!" he says enthusiastically. There is just silence. The man drones on as I spot Aly on the girl's side. She spots me.

Aly is wearing a red, low-cut sundress that brings out her vivid blue eyes. She gives me a saddened look that threatens to rip my heart in two.

"Edrick," whispers a fellow cropper, one who isn't in Hornslund's group, as Harlem drones on about the Games's history, "I feel sorry for you, man. Hornslund's got nearly everyone voting for you. It's been all anyone's talked about since you kicked his ass!"

"I had a feeling," I whisper back.

Now I'm nervous. I had woken up that day in denial that yesterday had even happened. When I accepted that it had, I thought there was no way Hornslund could be that brutal. Now that I have confirmation, there's nowhere to hide. It's just me, twenty-three others, and a very good chance that my demise will be untimely.

Drake Harlem's voice goes on in monotone, putting me into a trance. Icy hands grip my heart. Steel marbles ricochet in my stomach. A thousand white hot knives pierce my thoughts, and my muscles tense.

I imagine the worst. I imagine my mangled corpse, bloodied from the beating it's taken. Stab marks penetrate deeply into my stomach and chest. My breaths are labored, my pulse weak.

Watching safely from the other side of a television was Hornslund. His crooked smile was sly.

"It's time to announce this year tributes for the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games!" Harlem's voice boomed. I flinch, snapping out of my tortured thoughts. "You voted, and the girl who will represent District Six in this year's Hunger Games is Londyn Aureole!" The crowd is still silent.

I'd never heard of Londyn until now. She is led out into the aisle, and I can only see her head. It keeps bobbing up and down and ducking under the obstruction of the crowds' heads as if she keeps tripping and falling. She finally stumbles up onto the stage and takes a seat in the chair on the girl's side.

I look back to Aly, but she doesn't see me. She seems relieved.

"And now time for the male tribute for this year!"

I go weak in the knees. It feels like time stands still when Drake Harlem opens the envelope that almost surely holds the result of my standing up to Hornslund.

Just as Harlem opens his mouth to speak again, someone shouts.

_"It's Edrick!"_

Some of the crowd giggles. One person cracks up laughing, no doubt Hornslund.

"District Six's male is...Edrick Quillheart!"

The crowd screams out in rejoice. I just want to throw up.

I'm pulled from my position by someone and thrown out into the aisle. I walk slowly toward the stage where a smiling Drake Harlem is waiting. People cheer. It's disgusting. They all deserve to die before me. It makes me angry. It makes me want to kill them.

On my way up the long aisle, I spot Hornslund. He's laughing relentlessly and giddily as if he'd just won the lottery. It makes me sick. Dark thoughts imbue me. I imagine Hornslund in the arena, helpless and unarmed. Me with my scythe, raising it high in the air, I split Hornslund's head in two.

Expressionless, I walk up the stairs and sit in my chair.

* * *

I sit alone in the the house where the goodbyes are always said to tributes going to the Hunger Games. I have my head in my hands when a Peacekeeper brings Aly in by the arm, throwing her at me.

"You have two minutes," he says.

Aly throws herself on me, sobbing. "I don't want you to die, Edrick! I just met you, I _like_ you, you comforted me when no one else would!"

"...You look gorgeous, you know," is all I can manage.

Aly presses her face into my shoulder and weeps openly. "_Edrick_—" she gags through tears. "You _have_ to win. _Please_. You have to _try_. I need to see you again. It can't end like this, it just _can't!"_

"Aly, you're the only person in the world I would die for. I don't have anyone except you, and if I die in that goddamn arena, it's for you. Everything I do from now on is for you. I don't have parents, I don't have family, but I have one friend, Aly. You. And I need you to do something for me. Just one thing."

"Anything, Edrick." She looks at me with her now reddened, glossy blue eyes in anticipation.

"Stick it to Hornslund. Have tough skin, and he can't bother you anymore. He'll get frustrated if he sees nothing's getting to you. I've seen it happen before. And when I get back, when we're together again, he won't be able to do a thing to us."

"Time's up," the Peacekeeper barges in and takes Aly away.

"No! No! _NO!"_ Aly kicks and screams, but it's no use.

I had thought my visits were over—I had no one else—but the door opens yet again. I thought I would never see who had walked through again, but there they were. My mother and father.

"Get out," are the the first words out of my mouth. "Get the _hell_ out! You have no right to be here!"

"Edrick—" my mother starts.

"No, I don't even want to hear it! I ran away two years ago for a reason! You people called yourselves my parents, but you didn't give a rat's ass about me. Of course now that I'm going to freaking die, you show up. And I'm telling you now, I don't want to hear your 'we're your parents, we had to come' sob story. You two can get out of my life, and stay out, because I want to enjoy what left I have of it."

It was his father that spoke this time. "We came to apologize, Edrick." He paused. "...But I see we're still in the wrong," he finishes sarcastically.

I can't believe how angry I am at my parents right now. They neglected me, and they ignored me for fifteen straight years, and my father still has the nerve to get sarcastic with me.

"I already said it once," I say in a calm voice, "Get the hell out of here. Now."

My father throws up his hands, kicks the door open, and slams it behind him. My mother still stands where she is.

"Hear me out, Edrick. Please," she says briskly.

"Fine. You have one chance to say something to your damned son before he dies."

"Why your father gave up like that, I don't know, but I never stopped loving you, Edrick. When you ran away, I looked for you for three days straight while your father sat at home. Later that month, I divorced him. He only came today because he thought he would look bad if he didn't and someone found out."

I see right through my mother. She shows no emotion. Aly had sobbed her eyes out. My mother is treating it like I'm going to work for a day.

"What a load of crap. You neglected me just as much as dad did."

"He said he'd hurt me. He said to give up on you. It's so complicated."

"Get the hell out before I call the Peacekeeper in," I say. I don't need to call the Peacekeeper in, though.

"Time's up," he says again, like when Aly had been taken away.

"I love you, Edrick," my mother says quickly before the Peacekeeper forces her out the door.

"Aly's given me more love in two days than you've given me in fifteen years."

* * *

**Londyn Aureole of District 6**

**By 1Styx and Stones1**

* * *

_"The Moth don't care when he sees The Flame.  
__He might get burned, but he's in the game.  
__And once he's in, he can't go back, he'll  
__Beat his wings 'til he burns them black...  
__No, The Moth don't care when he sees The Flame...  
__The Moth don't care if The Flame is real,  
__'Cause Flame and Moth got a sweetheart deal.  
__And nothing fuels a good flirtation,  
__Like Need and Anger and Desperation...  
__No, The Moth don't care if The Flame is real..."_

― Aimee Mann

* * *

The morning starts like any other.

I wake on my bedroom floor, wrapped in the linen sheets that spill off my bed to cocoon me like a disheveled butterfly, with the taste of ashes on my tongue and a dulled pain in the back of my head, tearing at my sanity with its jagged fingernails.

It takes a minute to orient myself, taking in the familiar stillness of my room, and then I grapple to my feet, searching out the bedpost with my hands to better support my aching limbs.

There is a heavy humidity to the air that feels like the color gray. Gray, I am told, is the color of storm clouds and cigarette smoke. Gray, I know, is the feel of impending doom hanging low. It weighs heavy on my shoulders as I stagger, catching my foot in the snarled bed sheets on the floor, into the bathroom.

From there, it is a simple matter of searching out the familiar coolness of a vial and syringe beneath my fingertips.

The gray retreats under a myriad of Technicolor, everything more bright and more alive and more _real_, as I slide the needle beneath my skin.

It's not an addiction, but I can function better with this artificial life-blood in my veins. My senses are more attuned, nearly enough to compensate for my complete lack of sight.

Some people drink coffee in the morning. I pump my veins full of chemicals I've stolen from my father's affluent pharmaceutical business.

To each his own, right?

And once my body has been kick-started into consciousness, the memories of the previous night bleed back into legibility—cigarette smoke and the dying heat of the setting sun on the smooth clay shingles of my rooftop and me, relatively sober, questioning universal truths with a boy so staggeringly high that it was almost cute.

_I am on the roof, smoking and imagining rolling plumes of cigarette smoke soaring towards a vaulted heaven the same color as the feel of brushed velvet on skin._

_"What do you see?" asks Tanner Schaefer in that quiet, serious tone of voice that can only mean he is higher than any of the stars that burn so searingly bright in my mind's eye—the only functioning eye I have._

_This, of course, is enough to merit a derogatory snort. A downside of allowing yourself to be associated with a bum is that bums are, by nature, not particularly intelligent._

_"Nothing. It's called being blind, Tanner, sweety."_

_Tanner grunts heavily and sinks to the rooftop beside me. He's too close and he smells of stale alcohol and ashes, so I pointedly scoot away._

_He follows, all sweaty hands and smelly breath, oddly innocent, like an eager-to-please puppy dog with paws too big for its tiny body._

_"Tanner, I swear to God," I say sharply, launching my bony elbow aimlessly into the broad expanse of his chest before rolling away from him once more. I have no idea how close to the edge of the roof I am at this point, and I am sober enough that the idea of suddenly plummeting through nothing is, oddly, unappealing._

_"If you touch me I will shove you off the roof and then I will laugh at your bleeding body and use you to stub out my cigarettes—"_

_It's not one of my better threats, but it seems to have effect enough on Tanner. He draws back with a sulky, wounded air and starts whining, his plaintive voice grating on my nerves like sand paper on skin._

_"—was just try'na be affectionate...think you're too good for everyone, just 'cause you're a walkin' rhinestone...Just try'na make your last night a good one, but no—"_

_"What are you talking about?" I interject impatiently, feeling about for the edge of the roof line to ensure that I do not misstep and fall. "I'm the one who makes the death threats here, Tanner. And if you touch me one more time..."_

_"It's the truth, Londyn," he says in self-righteous indignancy. "I'm just looking out for a friend. You don't—"_

_"Whoa." I sit up and point a finger in the general direction of Tanner's voice. "We are not friends, Tanner. I tolerate you because you're cute when you're drunk, but I—"_

_"Stop interrupting me!" Tanner interrupts, the hypocrite, in a wounded tone of voice. "I'm try'na warn you!"_

_I stub my cigarette with every ounce of aggression in me, burning a finger in an instant of bright, sharp pain that reminds me of a brilliant star, singing a hole in the dark canopy overhead with its icy heat._

_"Warn me about what?"_

_Tanner coughs again, a cloud of smoke and ash and the acrid scent of alcohol, and says, "You're going to be voted tribute."_

_"Don't be stupid," I snub._

_"I'm serious!" he protests. "They're not going to—to send some kid with a bright, shiny future when they've got bums like you smoking weed on the roof!"_

_I frown, hating how simultaneously pathetic and logical he is, and try to quell the sudden spark of fear that is burning like a star through the smog of tobacco and sleepiness within me._

_"For your information," I snap, "this is a plain cigarette. And bums like me? Who is the totally smashed one on this rooftop, hon? If you're going to be a pessimist, at least be a non-biased one."_

_"I turned nineteen last month," Tanner says quietly. "I'm out of the drawing. But you—"_

_"I am the only daughter of the wealthiest man in the entire District. I may hate the man, but Daddy's got influence," I scoff offhandedly, silently wishing I believed my own words. "I don't think I've got anything to worry about."_

Eventually the fear was lost in a haze of smoke and needles and alcohol that tasted like a bitter, harsh shade of yellow-white, and by the time I staggered into my room it was all but lost.

Now, conscious, with every thought and memory amplified by the drugs, it is hard not to duck my head and cower under my covers, hiding from the swirling, gray promise of death hanging overhead.

Instead I retreat, back to the medicine cabinet, and add another star to the constellations that mar the underside of my arm, tiny raised bumps that shape the universe. The fear doesn't go away, but when the sounds and the feel of the world around me are distorted and warped and oddly beautiful, it suddenly seems less important.

I can feel Daddy's disapproval scorching the back of my neck like a sunburn as he pauses in the hallway to glare at me through the crack of my slightly ajar bedroom door.

I smile and turn to face him, fixing my eyes on the face I can't see. "Morning, Daddy," I sing, and then I giggle because the shape of the words feels weird on my tongue.

His voice is flat, as soulless as the cool, silvery feel of metal, as he returns the greeting with a simple, "Londyn."

The ground under my feet seems to be swaying, just the slightest bit, and I steady myself against the dresser as my head whirls and churns like boiling water. Perhaps I shouldn't have taken that second needle; I haven't been so disoriented since the first time I tried shooting up.

I grin, relishing the feeling of floating, detached from everything, free and wild and invincible, as the drugs truly begin to kick in. "Excited for the reaping?"

"Not in particular," he says in his dry, hollow voice. "Londyn, are you—"

"I'm fine, Daddy. Just great, actually—"

"Londyn, _why_?" He catches me off guard, with a sudden rush of desperate, exasperated emotion, and I stop.

"Why?" I repeat, tasting the word on my tongue. It sounds odd in my ears, and when I giggle again, the noise rings through my head like the high drone of a power drill.

"Why are you—Why do you—" He sighs and breaks off with a frustrated noise. My head is spinning more frantically now, and I don't even hear him approach over the noise of my own fragmented thoughts.

He takes my hands in his cool, pudgy-fingered grasp and doesn't let go, even when I nearly stumble over my own feet in an attempt to pull away. "You are all that is left of your mother."

This close, I can smell the familiar scent alcohol, a foreigner on his breath. Oddly, it nauseates me. Now it is not only my head, but my stomach as well, churning and pitching and tossing until I can no longer distinguish where my father's voice is coming from. It comes in fits and bursts, first loud then soft, choppy and disjointed like a faulty radio wave.

"—_BEAUTIFUL—_...Wasn't the SAME after _you_ were—...Doctors—...Post-natal depre—...WHY? WHY?...All I—_have—__left—_...WHY—do—you—...to yourself—"

"Daddy," I say, finally succeeding in tugging free of his slackening grip. I search for his face, but instead my hands hit only empty air and I giggle. "Daddy, you're drunk."

He catches my hands in his again, and turns me so that I'm facing the source of his anguished voice. "Londyn, you're lost."

He lets go of my hands and walks away as I wonder how he can move so capably while the room is thrumming and pulsing like a heartbeat. He closes the door and for an unfathomable second I want to cry, but instead I laugh.

_Daddy's a hypocrite._

I laugh until there's no air left in my body and then I sink, breathless, onto the bed.

Once I manage to regain my feet, I search out the clock hung on my wall and trace the two slender hands, then curse. I've slept a greater portion of the morning away, and now there's no time to go visit Gran if I want to be ready for the reaping.

As if anyone _ever _wants to be ready for the reaping.

I dress quickly but carefully, searching out an outfit through touch alone. We're supposed to dress nicely for some senseless reason, make-up and fine clothes hiding the tribute's corpse like a burial cloth, and so I seek out the cool, crisp cotton feel that I will always associate with white bed sheets.

The dress is short and lacy, with eyelet lace lining the hem and capped sleeves, filled with miniscule stitches and flower cut-outs that I can stick my pinky through. Paired with simple strappy sandals, the entire ensemble is intolerably girly, but that is my aim.

The thing about sight is that it can completely blind you. Take it from the blind girl.

People see appearances and they make judgments. That's just how it goes. In school there are people who are fawned over because they're _pretty_ and _well-dressed_ and _sexy_, when all I hear is the insecurity of a too-shrill voice and the shallow stupidity behind a boy's bluster.

And then there are the people who are called _gross_ and _weird_ and _freaky_, the ones who are quiet and say intelligent things, the ones you have to watch out for.

Appearance is the first step in manipulation. So if I _do_ get voted 'most popular' and end up on that platform with a babbling Capitol representative, whose voice is all false vigor, I want people to see a little blind girl, not an infamous bad influence with a smart mouth and a rich daddy.

The problem with constructing a façade is...well, I'm blind. I don't know if I'm pretty. I don't know what pretty _means._

I know that I'm tall and the last housekeeper used to cluck her tongue at how _skinny_ I was (before I got her fired, of course). My face is thin, my chin pointy in comparison to the those of others whose features I've traced with curious fingers, and my nose is a delicate ski jump.

My hair is apparently somewhere between gold and red—though this has never made sense, because red is the feel and taste of thick, warm, coppery blood and heated anger, while gold is cool and hard and valuable—and a tangled, untamed mess. I chopped it short on a frenzied night I can't exactly remember in a fit of rebellion, and now it falls in thick, choppy curls around my chin.

Daddy's anger was so enjoyable that I couldn't help but tests his limits, see what further wrath I could incur, and so I had spent a considerable sum of money—stolen from Daddy's wallet—and gotten some...enhancements, imported all the way from that glitzy District One.

My eyes were useless as it was, so I'd had a tiny circular piece of smooth obsidian stone inserted in the place of my pupils, as well as tiny flecks of gold scattered across my cheekbones like freckles.

I don't know if it did anything to enhance my appearance, but it certainly made me stand out, and Daddy's anger had been absolutely delicious. He'd actually acknowledged my existence for more than a couple seconds—completely sober, too!—while screaming in my face that I had disappointed him and desecrated my _dear_, departed mother's memory.

My memories of my mother are a quivering, throbbing tangle of sensations—teardrops on faded ivory piano keys, sudden, blazing fits of rage, the sweet, sour smell of wine on goodnight kisses, a voice screaming fragments of garbled nonsense, and shattered bottles on the kitchen floor—and the _facts_ I have collected about her do nothing to endear these memories to me.

And every time Daddy screams at me or shakes his head in disappointment, I want to scream back at him that _doesn't he understand_? Doesn't he understand that this is my mother's fault—for drinking and snorting and sobbing her way through a pregnancy, for naming her daughter after a city she will never see, a city that was torched and burned to the ground, for dying from an alleged '_mistaken'_ overdose of _'prescription medication'_ and leaving a blind five-year-old to a grieving father and a demented old woman?

And so, really, I _am_ crafting my life to honor my mother. I'm a living testament to the life she led, a life of addiction...simply minus the sniveling.

And when I die—and never before has the 'when' seemed so imminent—I am going to go out in peacock plumes of smoke and flames brighter than the stars.

I allow Daddy to take my hand in his soft, fat one and pull me along, none too gently, once we reach the quietly fearful throng of candidates for tribute. Eventually we come to a stop. I recognize the high-pitched, anxious chatter of the girls in my class.

"Good luck," he says after a long minute, and stretches upward to press his lips to my cheek. He smells like mint toothpaste, masking the remnants of alcohol on his tongue, but I still can't help but pull away. "May the odds b—"

I wrinkle my nose and quell the sudden, rare rush of faint fondness that erupts in my chest. "Oh, God, don't be cheesy, Daddy."

He sighs and lets go of my hand. I don't hear him walk away over the nervous titters of my classmates.

No one talks to me, as I would prefer it. I stand, jiggling a foot to release nervous tension, and wait.

The Capitol representative's accent is most definitely fake, judging from the painfully deliberate way he mimics the harsh angles of the jargon as he greets us. I'm not even entirely sure that he is, in fact, masculine. You never know with these crazy people.

He spouts some patriotic crap that no one pays attention to, each caught in their own panicked, hysterical fantasy of what-if's, and reminds us that it was we who brought about the first rebellion, we who incurred the punishment of the Games, and we who have sentenced today two of our own to almost-certain death, giving them a shard of a chance at glory.

He says it all with a smile in his voice.

"Let's begin with the delicate sex," he says finally, and I feel the crowd around me tense collectively, possibly insulted by the man's sexist slurs, possibly just terrified out of their mind.

The microphone amplifies the quiet rustle of a paper being unfolded, and my heart lurches in a painful jolt of realization.

"Londyn...Au-Auro—"

"_Aureole_," I correct automatically, and move forward with deliberate steps, breathing deep and oddly unafraid. Haven't I been killing myself every day for years now, each and every star I mark into my arm moving me one step closer to a permanent residence in the heavens?

I allow myself to stumble over feet and irregular cobblestones. A million helpful arms are there to help me regain my balance, to make up for the fact that they'd all rather it be me than them, the fact that they probably all delivered my death sentence.

I can't make myself cry, but I allow myself to whimper audibly as soon as I am within broadcasting distance of the microphone.

"Okay, dear," says the man in a pretense at sympathy, "tell us your name."

"I'm Londyn Aureole," I whisper, addressing the empty air a good foot from his face, making myself look as small and pitiful as possible.

His hands are sweaty and studded with some variety of gemstone that digs into my bare arm as he turns me to face the microphone. "Over here, darlin'."

"I-I'm Londyn Aureole," I repeat, stumbling over my words, "and-and I'm blind."

"Oh, dear," he says in a voice oozing false sympathy. "What a tough situation. I only hope you can look to those who, in the past, have stood in your place and succeeded, and find hope."

I offer him a wavering smile and try not to snort. Last year's male tribute stabbed himself in his sizable gut with his _own_ spear..._by mistake_.

And then he calls the male tribute, a name I vaguely recognize as one that was often said in a whisper, accompanied by unpleasant giggles and the word _weird_. Today it is greeted with actual _applause, _malicious and unapologetic.

Edrick Quillheart's voice, as he pronounces his name, is not one I have heard often, and for this reason I am wary.

It's the quiet ones that often prove lethal.

We shake hands and then the Capitol representative links our hands and raises them to an unenthusiastic, vaguely sorrowful crowd, displaying my galaxy of puncture marks to the world.

They sit me on a couch covered in a luxurious brushed velvet that reminds me of the sky. I amuse myself by puncturing holes in the perfect fabric with the sharp-edged back of my earring, marking the constellations Gran made me memorize so long ago.

The door opens. I don't look up as Daddy enters.

"Londyn," he says breathlessly, takes my spare hand and refuses to let go. "Londyn, I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry for what?" I disagree bluntly, stabbing the final chink into Orion's belt. Orion was a mythical hero from an ancient civilization that fell millions of lifetimes ago, that only Gran can seem to remember. "Did YOU vote for me?"

"Well...No, but—"

"Then don't apologize. Like you're even going to miss me," I scoff.

"I will," he says firmly, and flips my hand to expose my scarred, starred underarm. I try to pull away, but he holds tighter, uncurling my fist and pressing something cold and metallic into it. A ring. "It was your mother's wedding ring," he says. "I want you to—to...You're just like her," he begins tearfully.

This is too much. I try once more to jerk away from him. "Oh my god, stop insulting me."

He emits a choked, tearful laugh and presses his lips to the crook of the Big Dipper on my arm. "I love you."

"Liar."

His footsteps echo even after the door has closed.

The Peacekeepers have to help Gran into her chair, suffering blow after blow from her diamond-tipped cane as she protests all the while.

"Unhand me, you fiends! I am old enough to be your great-grandfather's young, gold-digging mistress, and I deserve to be treated better!"

I can't help but crack a grin. "Hi, Gran."

"Don't you 'hi' me, young woman!" she snaps. "Insolent young things, don't know how to respect their elders! Didn't your mother teach you better, young missy?"

My smile fades. It's one of her irate days. And she doesn't remember me.

"Gran, it's me. Londyn. I-I've been reaped. For the Hunger Games. Gran, I'm probably not—"

"The Hunger Games!" she interrupts. "Why, I don't know what that newfangled Capitol thinks it's doing, trying to harness their inner Julius Caesar! Rome fell, you know!" Gran barks, rapping at my knee with her cane. "To those crazy Germans, with their tight jeans and unpronounceable designer brands...Or was that the French?"

"Gran—"

She keeps talking, ranting on about the unattractive way that men are wearing their pants 'nowadays'—"puddling 'round their ankles like gym socks!"—and some "plastic surgery balloon" named Kim Kardashian.

And it makes me want to cry, because the only person who loves me, who I actually love, doesn't remember me. If I go off and die, she'll never even remember me saying goodbye.

I seize her gnarled, wrinkly hands in mine and grip as hard as I dare, willing her to remember. "Gran, please! It's me! It's Londyn, your Londyn! I play piano for you every day, remember? Only I couldn't come today, and I'm sorry. And we have tea, remember? And you tell me stories. About—about lights and the city before the rebellion and that crazy deaf guy, Beethoven? _Remember_?"

Tears spring to my eyes for the first time in forever. "Gran, _please_!"

"You need a token," she says abruptly, pulling back and rustling about in her familiar old coat that smells like old people and flowery perfume. "If you're going to go play gladiator, you'll at least need something to make yourself presentable."

She presses something into my hands, a plastic, fine-toothed comb, and then pats my head kindly. "I don't know who you are, but I'll tell you this—the secret to getting ahead in life is a good hairdresser and a daily vitamin supplement, you hear?"

I nod as a tear spills over my gold-flecked cheek. They taste salty on my lips. "Yes, Gran."

The doors swing open and the wary Peacekeepers confiscate Gran's cane before escorting her out of the room. As the door closes, I can hear her howling and smacking at them with her hands. "Goddamnit, you insolent thugs, that young woman was about to give me a manicure!"

I stare at my hands unseeingly as silence rolls back in like the tide, weighing the heavy circle of some variety of precious metal against the plastic comb.

Eventually I go back to stabbing stars into the velvet cushion beneath me. As the door opens once more, revealing only the Peacekeepers, here to escort me to the train, I worm my mother's wedding ring into the hole corresponding with the North Star.

I tuck the comb into my pocket and allow the big men to trundle me along to my doom, stumbling over my sandaled feet and whimpering occasionally for effect.

I wish I had a cigarette.

* * *

**1Styx and Stones1's A/N:**

**Ahem. Hi, everyone! Um. Welcome to the Quarter Quell? Anyway, I'm so excited to be working with everybody (especially my awesome district partner who doesn't find me creepy!), and I hope that you like my character... in the same way that you sorta like the bad guys in stories...except she's a girl. And I think that's it. I'm Styx, and I approve this message. Please review and don't do drugs. You might end up in the Hunger Games. Or falling off a roof. :)**


	8. District Seven: Broken Music

**Phoenix/Nina here. Going to spare you the long note. I'm having computer/internet issues so that's why this is late-sorry for that. Hopefully it won't take me HOURS on Saturday to do this again X_X  
**

* * *

**Jonas Emerson of District 7**

**By Yelof530**

* * *

"_I believe  
This may call for a proper introduction,  
And, well, don't you see?  
I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue."_

—Panic! At the Disco

* * *

**Yelof530's A/N: **

**Glad to be here for another round, guys! It's a pleasure to be writing with all 24 authors, veterans and newbies alike and especially my district partner here. Let's get started!**

* * *

Mother always says that dawn is her favorite time of day. On beautiful days like the one peeking up over the horizon now, she'd open all the windows and allow the fresh morning air to flow through the house. The light is bent into the windows enough to send a cascade of warm yellowed light across the dark wooden floors, and you could watch those little particles that drift through the air dance aimlessly in its ray. A subtle cool breeze would drift by with a few traces of dew that hadn't quite settled or dried up yet, and her cheerful spirit seemed to carry in the atmosphere. My tutor, Mr. Hoffman, wasn't even here to yell at me to close "those forsaken wind-ers, before I throw you out one with the rest of the sound." See, the man believes the music sounds better when the air is still and it's hot as hell in the room.

This is also the time of day when I practice. Sure, I practice throughout the day, more than what would be considered normal, but the woman somehow finds joy in listening to me screw up. Obviously, when I wake up, especially before dawn of all the times of the day, I'm groggy and my fingers fumble more times than they should. It doesn't take long for me to clear my mind and for my senses to sharpen, though. All that fills the silence of my home are the warm, deep tones of my cello as I drag the bow back and forth, occasionally hooking a note and seemingly holding my breath as it stops and goes. It's a stress reliever and mind clearer, allowing me to get lost for hours at a time. My fingers press down on the thick strings, the strength of years of practice able to do it so effortlessly.

Most kids at school usually build up strength in the lumber yard, swinging axes around and hacking down trees and the occasional unfortunate eight-year-old. It leaves me on the smaller end, and with my already thinned-out frame, I'm noticeably smaller than the working class majority of my age. There are distinct features about me that separate me from peers. I guess it comes with being the mayor's only son. "You have to hold yourself differently, Jonas," he'd say, "You're of status in District Seven. Not some raggedy logger." He says logger like it's a bad thing. Frankly, if it weren't for those loggers, we'd just be screwed here in District Seven. I imagine other families chastise their sons about wanting to be musicians. "You're the working class, Bob. Not some sissy who plays a cello." Doesn't help that you play the freaking thing with your legs spread. Here, I'll give you a moment to make as many remarks as you'd like. Insert the waiting music, similar in fashion to that of an elevator. Done? Okay.

I feel myself rocking unconsciously as I play. I roll my fingers along the strings, creating the pulsating pitch of vibrato. The last measure rings out and carries on for one last moment, echoing through the house. I take a deep breath, preparing to delve into the next piece when I detect a pair of eyes watching me. Unless it was some unmentioned creeper in my household, I was certain it was Mother. Franz would have barged in regardless of what I was playing and instantly point out five things wrong about my technique alone. The man was rash and brooding, a permanent scowl etched into his face. Despite this, he still managed to find love in an equally frustrated-looking woman and create offspring, explaining his absence today. It proved, in the face of his protests to my father, that something other than my musical training is important to him. Franz's son becomes eligible for the first time this year. I doubt he'd be reaped. The boy would have never needed to apply for tesserae, with what my father pays Mr. Hoffman. And with the Quarter Quell ruling of this year, only someone cruel and out for blood would vote on a twelve-year old, if I understand it correctly.

My mind ponders on this thought. Who would the district deem worthy of voting to their deaths? Or simply unworthy of living?

I open my mouth, prepared to say, "Morning, Mom," when I focus better on the figure in the corner of my vision. It's too wide, compared to Mom's willowy frame, and tall to be the woman. Not a woman's figure at all.

My throat goes dry, and I fumble to get back to playing. Play it cool; you know, hey, yeah, didn't see you awkwardly watching me like a stalker-man. But he has caught my hesitation, knows I have caught sight of him. He emerges from his spot, grinning proudly and crossing his arms over his chest.

It's too wide to be genuine, that grin. There's a coy a tilt to his mouth that sends a shiver down my spine, a viper about to strike. Dad's pale green eyes bore into me as if inspecting my soul for some speck of dirt. If I wasn't his son, I'd have probably shouted something like "CREEPER!" and run away screaming for my mommy. I think I did that once. Mind you, I was awesome when I was seven. Back in the day when I actually had a backbone around my father. Before I realized the wonderful world of politics.

"Good morning, Father," I say stiffly. Forcing myself to maintain eye contact, to not tear away from his gaze, is almost unbearable. My eyes water. He's already wearing his nice suit, nicer than all the other ones in his closet. The silver of his cufflinks glisten in the orange light of the rising sun. In this sort of lighting, dark shadows are cast across his face, showing lines of age, caused by years of frowning way too much. The laugh lines are partially visible around his mouth, but, mind you, it wasn't from laughing, just smiling way too much.

"Practicing, I see."

I bit my tongue, restraining the "No shit, Sherlock" on my lips. Instead, I nod. On an average day, I'd be sitting with my cello and playing before school, during my lunch period at school, in music class, when I get home, and maybe once before I go to bed. Obviously, I practice more than what is socially acceptable as the "norm."

"Yup." This isn't awkward. Just a typical exchange between a son and his ass-hat dad.

Now, why is he a douche or ass-hat as I say? Because he is. Everyone knows that Mayor Emerson is. If you think otherwise, you too are a douche. I guess that makes me sort of a douche.

"Have you finished working on the pieces for the banquet later tonight?"

I adjust the end-pin of my cello and scoop up the strap attached to the chair. Dad's gaze sends my skin crawling, even with my back turned to him. "Yes, sir." I wince at the way I say "sir". Quickly, I pack my cello away in the case, off to the side of the room. Just deal with him for thirty more seconds. He clamps a hand down on my shoulder. I whip my cello case up in the same moment, but I had moved so fast I didn't realize I didn't latch shut the clasps. Its door swings open and I snatch the instrument's wooden neck before it strikes the floor. I'm unable to retain a hold on the case and it clatters to the floor. The klutz strikes again.

When he speaks, Father's voice is humored. "There's no need to be nervous." I'm not sure what he's talking about, the banquet or the reaping. Maybe he's talking about his presence. Although, I don't think he has the crazy sixth mothering instinct like Mom has.

"Uh, yeah," I stammer. Warmth floods my cheeks as I place the cello properly away, closing the case and locking the latches with greater care this time. I rise to full height, back as stiff as a board.

"How are you, son?" He tilts his head inquisitively. I hate when he tries to put on this caring father act. Most family discussions occur when we eat dinner in the evening. It just bothers me, those dinners. It's like he's still playing a role, even behind the scenes. From the outside in, it's wonderful. We have food, clothes, a nice big house—luxuries other people would never have.

It is wonderful. But…it isn't.

"Fine." That's a way to say it. My hand tightens around the case's handle.

"Just making sure you're okay, my boy." He grins. I force my eyes to stare back at his gaze, resisting the desire to look away. The pressure of his hands feels more like a vise grip than a reassuring squeeze, and I pull back as soon as his hold slackens. I nod, skirting about him quickly and heading upstairs.

The man knows how to play a role. The jolly mayor, happily married with his three daughters and gifted son. I hate that. I'm not gifted; I'm as much as a dumbass as the next guy. He didn't even want me to play an instrument when I was younger; instead, he wanted me to be some sports star. Dad only saw me as something useful when his secretary mentioned how the Capitol representatives would love to hear such playing at the conferences.

Like it would have made any difference to his reputation. Doesn't matter how loud or well I play, or how broadly he smiles, or how many babies he kisses, Mayor Emerson is a complete and utter ass-hat, harsh and quick to punish outlaws. "Guilty until proven innocent," is often muttered throughout the district in low tones too each other. We've now gotten to the point where even a snide remark about anything related to the Capitol, whether it is the Hunger Games or the president or even my father, leads to a hefty fine. Most people can't afford it and end up in jail for a month. It just snowballs, because the residents are then unable to go to work. They lose money and sink deeper into poverty. Their animosity increases and the vicious, hated cycle circles around once again.

Father means well. For his family, at the very least. I should be thankful. He's not abusive, and he provides. He gives us so much more than everyone else in the district.

Yet, I can't help the bead of cold sweat to roll down my back at the sight of him. The anger that bubbles up, only suppressed by mounting fear. Inside, I know that my father, Mayor Emerson, is a douche. Above all else, he's a proud man, my father, and he doesn't try to keep it a secret I'm his favorite. The thought leaves a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, especially when my sisters are around. Ronnie smiles kindly, but Bellafina's face just becomes so…vile.

I stumble up the final step, almost tripping backwards. It broke me from my musings, and I shook my head clear. It doesn't matter. Your dad is your dad. You can't choose your family.

Rant done.

In my room, I change into my formal reaping clothes, dark brown dress pants with a neatly pressed shirt and gray vest. I pull my favorite newsboy-style cap down, covering the top part of my ears and tug on my fingerless brown gloves. I glance into the mirror and examine the boy staring back. Brown eyes, a few specks of green blended in the irises, blinked at me with long, dark brown eyelashes. Brown hair, slightly curled, sticking out every which way, refusing to lay flat no matter how many times I pat it down. I smirk at the bastard, and the classic look twitches the side of my mouth up. I adjust the collar of my shirt to cover neck, which flaked and showed bright red where I scratched at the skin too much.

Walking back the room, I nearly collide with Bellafina as she passes the door. My sister casts me a glare and I contort my face together to send a nasty—and just a smidge bit constipated—look back. She adjusts one of her curls to ensure that one unruly strand was back in its proper position before flicking it over her shoulder anyway. Explain that to me, please. Who fixes their hair to just move it around again and screw it up? Bellafina marches promptly to the staircase, her curls as stern and stiff as she was. Five bucks says she'll be checking her hair in a spoon when I go downstairs for breakfast.

Bellafina is the prissiest of my three sisters. Living in a house full of girls can get to a guy's head sometimes. When you start to worry your brown case for your cello doesn't match the rest of your room at all, you realize you should get more guy friends. You definitely need them when you realize, hey, brown is a neutral tone, it goes with anything! Only I of all guys would know that.

Walking into the kitchen, I smirk as I find Mom holding Mariska tight in a hug. My fifteen-year-old sister's brown eyes drill into me, pleading for immediate older brother back-up. She refused the dress laid out on her bed by our parents this morning and instead found one of my old reaping outfits. She wore a tattered pair of white, fingerless gloves, and a vest just like mine.

"Morning, ladies," I say. My voice is a lot more laid back now that my confrontation with dad for the day is done. Bellafina sits in an elevated chair, one of those kinds you try to spin in a circle by swiveling your butt around, distastefully examining her nails.

Mother waves to me, still holding tight to Mariska. She has the same curls as the rest of the females in the house, but she keeps them cut short, where they brush her ears. Her eyes were still set wide on me.

"We'll be fine," I say assuredly. My tone has dropped, softer and more genuine. "You raised us right." Her brown eyes crinkle worriedly still.

"I'm your mother," she says in a tight voice. The threatening tears begin to manifest. "I'm licensed to be worried."

"Could I see your identification, then?" The look she shoots me makes me believe for a moment she actually is going to step back and whip some Overprotective Mother's badge out of her dress pocket. I smile again. Mariska's face has started turning blue.

"Hey, I know Bellafina can be a bitch sometimes, and Mariska can be a bitch in a different sort of way. But, I promise, we'll be here in a few hours with Ronnie's cookies and Bellafina's babbling in girl-speak and Mariska making fun of me as one big, estrogen smothering, happy family."

All females shoot me dirty looks and I grin innocently. It quickly melts to a smirk. Mom scowls sternly, but I see the sides of her mouth twitch up. "Jonas Emerson, you do not speak of your sisters in such a manner." Silently, she mouths, "But thank you." She's been especially edgy this reaping day. Ever since the Quarter Quell announcement, Mom has been so much more prone to hugs and laughs, but tears as well.

My eyes flicker to my Smurf-toned sister. Mom's been hugging her for quite a while, quite tightly….

"Hey, Risky, if you want to come with me to the music shop, you better come now." The girl slips from Mom's hold, quickly stepping up beside me.

"Love you, Mom!" We both wave. Mariska snatches my wrist. We barely hear Mom's goodbyes as we rush out the door.

"Nice outfit," I comment. She looks like Mini Me, as in Mini Jonas. We sprint down the porch steps and fly to the town square.

"Yeah, yeah," she spits, "Took you long enough."

* * *

"How are you related to this guy?" Bentley juts his chin towards me as I tune the guitar. The instrument is amazing. Bentley hooks me up with the best quality stuff he's got. I'm his best customer. By what I know, I'm probably his _only_ customer. Doesn't matter. Without me, he'd be out of business. Without him, I'd be the spoiled sissy son of Mayor Emerson.

See, now I can be considered the spoiled sissy son of Mayor Emerson who knows how to rock a cello between his legs.

Mariska, on the other hand, awkwardly plucked one of the guitars. I've tried, trust me, to teach her. She just doesn't have the patience for it. I'm sure if I were to die, she'd just sell all instruments or dramatically play them (horribly, I may add) and end up smashing them.

Nothing is sadder than the sound of a string snapping.

"Hey, wait," she says hopefully. She slowly plays a few off-key notes, grinning. "Hey, I played that rift you showed me!" The way she stuck her tongue in concentration, you'd think she was performing open heart surgery on a sneezing patient.

I nod. "Just stick to your day job." Mariska presses her lips together, furrowing her brows, as my fingers fly along the frets. "Guitar solo!" I announce. I lean against my sister and smirk as she tries to edge away from me. The final note rings out over the music store and hold up my hand dramatically, my fingers folded into devil horns.

"Good night, District Seven!"

Mariska glares intensely. "You suck, Jone-Ass," she mumbles.

I raise an eyebrow. "Stick to your day job when it comes to insults, too."

I hand Bentley the guitar, sliding him a bill. "Hold this for me, will ya'? I'll come back with the rest of the money and for the guitar after the reaping."

"It's a hot item, not sure if it'll be here." He's being sarcastic. Barely anyone walks into his little shop.

The sun is at a higher point in the sky now—mid-morning—as we leave. It involves passing by the voting booths from yesterday, a reminder of this year's interesting Quarter Quell twist. We stop by the bakery and buy two muffins for the two of us. They're still warm, and Mariska shoves as much as she can down her throat.

My eyes rise to one of the stores as we pass. The carpenter. Last year, their younger daughter, Jonella, was reaped. She was two years ahead of me, so I didn't know her or the guy, for that matter, too well. Araucaria was his name. They were buried together.

The family was okay. As best as a family could be when put against something like this. I stop and stare into the windows, but find the curtains drawn and a sign reading CLOSED on the door. My father spoke at this meeting about the two tributes, how they were brave and it was a tragedy to lose such good souls. His words make me sick. They were never genuine. They were just another two tributes gone to him, not teenagers who will never be able to grow old. I can't help think of Araucaria's nephew I heard was born months later. The baby was named Jonah. That's only a letter off from Jonas. He never was able to meet Jonah.

Mariska gives me a grave look. "The reaping will be starting soon." I blow a breath of air from my lungs. Today is going to go dandily.

We sign in and Mariska nudges me as I stumble off the line. My eyes follow the line of her pointing finger and smirk at Bellafina, her tongue crammed down some guy's throat.

"Real dignity, right there," Mariska snorts. "Bringing true pride to the Emerson name. Better than the sissy with the cello."

We move towards the sectioned-off pens, and before I can walk to the seventeen-year-olds, Mariska throws her arms around me, pressing her face into my chest. We're not touchy-feely people, especially my younger sister. Her fright scares me to no end.

"You're getting like Mom," I chuckle softly. She sniffles and quickly pushes me back and regains her cool.

"Jonas, have you even thought about it?" she asks, eyes widening. "They district is voting on who they want to go die." I honestly haven't put much thought into it. Yeah, people are voting. But I'd imagine some lowlife druggie or someone like that would be voted for.

"Mari-"

"You know how much people hate our dad," she spits. "What…what if…?"

I clench her shoulder. "Mariska, you're starting to sound like Mom. We're going to be fine." I grin. "I promise."

After a moment, Mariska nods. "Whatever." She shoves her hands into her pockets, striding to her section. I walk to mine.

It's not long until I see Dad mount the stage, a spring in his step as he took the microphone. I can still remember hearing him recite it pompously to himself when I passed by the bathroom.

Once finished, he hands off the position to the escort, a rather strange looking woman. The accent is like nails on a chalkboard, and I cringe throughout all her giddy laughing.

"Envelope, please?" she says, adoring the fact she gets a fancy seal to pop open with her nails. The dramatic pause sends my heart racing. Mariska could be right. Would someone vote for my sisters in spite of my father?

"Alexis Spurling."

No. They wouldn't.

The name, I vaguely remember. After a moment, there's some shouting, and it seems Alexis had been trying to make a run for it. She's thin, though, and no amount of bucking or clawing can stop the Peacekeepers from dragging her to the stage. Her orange-red hair flails about as she thrashes, and I pity the bastard who'll have to be her partner.

Her brother, Lucas, is in my age group. I am actually close enough to glance to him. His expression is hard to read, though. Is that anger for his sister being voted in? Smugness? Minor constipation? I also recall her name from an evening dinner discussion. She's the girl who's afraid of sharp things. My father put a law into effect that required all persons at least sixteen years of age to work in the lumberyards. He mentioned this girl and noted the trouble she created on the job. I won't use the words he typically uses because it may not be best heard by young ears.

The escort smiles awkwardly, edging away from her. "The boy's envelope, please?"

There's a moment of silence as she pries open the envelope. The woman actually smirks as she reads the name, eyes flashing viciously to Mayor Emerson, who waited by patiently by our only Victor.

"Jonas Emerson."

I'm fucked. I'm totally and utterly fucked.

My mind goes into autopilot as I am unable to act on my own accord. I force myself forward and move with swift, robotic strides. In my mind, I think through scales and drum my fingers along the side of my legs.

On the last step to the stage, I stumble, barely able to catch myself. No one offers any support and I exchange a look with my father.

Angrily, he storms off the stage, not saying a word.

"District Seven, I am proud to present your tributes: Alexis Spurling and Jonas Emerson!"

Alexis' face is shining with tears, and she discreetly pinches her arm. For a moment, she seems horrified. I sort of want to pinch myself too. A slap in the face from a hormonal girl you dumped on prom night would be a lot less painful than this nightmare.

She doesn't meet my gaze as we shake hands; instead, she looks down at our feet. There's a mere second, and I can see an array of emotions in her bulging blue eyes, mainly the evident fear at her fate. I turn and face the crowd. They lamely clap when instructed to, and I feel bits of me freeze. The crowd, too, have a mix of emotions that overwhelms me. There's regret, guilt, but plenty of contempt, too. They were happy to be rid of us.

Happy to rid Mayor Emerson of his pride and joy.

They could have just chosen Bellafina. She's known to sort of sleep around in the District. Or Mariska, who had a tongue sharp enough to send Alexis into a tizzy. But they voted for me.

So sick, to think, how they didn't mind me being the means of proving a stupid point. Wait, was it to stick it to my father? Or something far bigger, the Capitol itself? And, even more sickening, how I don't blame them one bit.

* * *

First to come in is my parents. Dad can't look me in the eye. Mom is a blubbering mess, and I feel very close to it.

"My baby boy," she sobs, rocking with me in her arms. It takes all constraint in me not to sob as well. "My Jonas." Dad awkwardly strokes small circles in her back. He seems more worried about calming his wreck of a wife than son.

"I'm sorry," he says. I snort with laughter in spite of myself. Mom scowls at the sound through her blurred eyes and I just shake my head.

"That was a good job," I say. "I think I almost believed you for a second."

His eyebrows knit together angrily. "How dare—?"

"Byron," Mom barks. "Just shut up." We have nothing else to say until the Peacekeeper comes in.

"Good luck," Dad grimaces stiffly. He knows I'm dying. His voice holds no conviction.

After them come Bellafina and Ronnie. Ronnie is my eldest sister, having already moved out. We may be the mayor's kids, but we won't stay at home like that. She silently hugs me while Bellafina sits far away on a separate couch. We Emersons have always been a quiet bunch. We always bottled things up inside, which probably explains a lot of things about me. I smile meekly as they leave, so soon. I'm slightly disturbed by the smirk lighting up Bellafina's face.

Did I mention she was the spawn of the devil?

Bentley slides the cash I gave him earlier into my pocket when he comes in. "I figured you don't want that guitar now," he says softly. I smile.

"Thanks. I'll make sure I hire the finest hooker possible with this money." The laughter that follows is sad to hear.

Last is Mariska. It's sad that my best friend is my little sister. I tend to avoid kids, and they tend to avoid me. It's a mutual relationship. Most people hate my father, so the distaste ebbs onto me a little. My sister's mature for her age, and I'm not exactly trying to be an adult all the time. "Well, thankfully, we can agree that you were right."

She punches me in the gut. "OW!" Swiftly, she slams another fist into the couch cushion and slams her head backwards. Okay, she's not exactly mature either. We're both just children. Just yesterday, we were fighting each other with sticks in the backyard.

In a week, twenty-three other kids are going to try killing me with extra sharp sticks.

"This is bullshit!" she shouts. Grabbing a lamp, she slams it down onto the side table. It erupts in sparks that singe the carpet, all dancing before my eyes. I try to grab her wrist but Mariska just tears away from me. "Bullshit!"

"Yes, Mariska, I realize that," I state dryly. She kicks and punches the furniture, her knuckles blooming red. "The Games suck and so does life."

"But you didn't do anything wrong!" she screeches. "Dad's the one who has to be," she tosses the side table over, "a fucking prick all the time! It's Dad's fault, that District Four kid's fault!"

I wrap my arms around Mariska, thrusting her onto the couch again. "What do you mean District Four kid?"

Mariska, despite not fighting, is still tense under my grip. "That boy from last year. If he hadn't blown such a bitch-fit, this stupid Quarter Quell wouldn't be happening!"

I'm not quite sure what she means by this "bitch-fit". It could have been something edited out of the recaps. Mariska also had a habit of watching television on our father's television in his office which isn't always screened. How else would my sister watch Capitol Cable reality shows?

"A stupid bitch-fit like the one you're throwing now?"

She goes silent. Mariska finally works the nerve to look me in the eye, and she gasps loudly. Her shoulders quake. The girl begins to sob; it's so unlike my sister. It tears me apart.

"This sucks," she gasps. "This sucks so bad."

My throat is too thick with tears to sarcastically point out it's badly, not bad.

"Don't give up, okay?" Her eyes are shining. "Don't be like those kids that just give up. Remember to be Jonas." She squeezes me tight, Mariska's voice much higher and more innocent than usual. "I just want my sissy brother to come home."

A Peacekeeper comes in to pull her off me. In a fluid motion, she twists around and bites into the man's hand. I smile, sadly but slightly, as the man is forced to call reinforcement and my sister is hauled away.

* * *

**Alexis Spurling of District 7**

**By Hazelshade12**

* * *

_"It is the strange fate of man,_  
_that even in the greatest of evils,_  
_the fear of the worst continues to haunt him."_

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe**  
**

* * *

**Hazelshade12's A/N:**

**So I'm going to be honest and say that I was not expecting to get in whatsoever. But now that I actually made it, I am happy to be here. Tell me what you think of this, and tell me what I can improve on next time. :)**

* * *

_It was a cold, moonless night in the middle of November. My brother Marcus and I were working late in one of our district's many forests. He was training me to use an ax, for when I'd start working full time. He supervised me as I swung my ax, over and over again until the tree fell. "Good work, little sis," he told me, ruffling my hair like he always did. _

_Suddenly, I saw the gleam of an axe come out of no where, and hit the stem of his neck. I screamed harder than I thought was possible while his head flew off his body, a look of pride still on his face, and landed at my feet, splattering my shoes with a sickly, red substance—blood._

_"Hey!" An eighteen-year-old boy ran up to me, who I recognized as Zachary Miller, a boy from school who dropped out and became an alcoholic. "Your stupid brother got in the way of my tree! Now, thanks to him, I don't have enough lumber to by me enough booze to get me through next week and…" _

_He keeps rambling on about how my brother is an idiot, and it's not his fault he's dead. Finally, I stop him. "You're a monster," I growl at him. "You're a monster who cares about nothing, and is nothing but cruel!"_

_ "I said it's not my fault he's—"_

_ "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" _

_I grab my brother's disembodied head, and sprint as far as I can away from the woods. In the distance, I hear the booming voices of Peacekeepers coming to arrest him and punish him for his crimes._

I awaken with a start on the morning of the reaping; sweat beading down my pale face. I try to calm myself by telling myself that it never actually happened, and it was all just a dream. But it did happen. The night I dreamed about happened two years ago, and the dreams have been haunting me ever since.

I glance over to the left side of my four-poster, where my brothers Medal of Honor hangs. I had gotten it the day after his death, from Mayor Emerson himself. He simply gave me the medal and had his Peacekeepers escort me out. That was it. No 'I'm sorry for your loss,' no sings of sympathy at all. He said that he'd make sure more training was given to new lumberjacks and he'd outlaw drinking while working. That did happen, for about a month, but I saw a kid carelessly toss an axe at the tree, barley missing someone, and I swear I smelled alcohol coming from somebody's mouth soon after. I bet he forgot about that meeting, and that I existed, until the complaints started.

I lay on my bed for a while, not ready to go to the reaping. A part of me worries that I will get chosen, because I have heard whispers around the district, calling me a freak for how I have a major panic attack whenever I see something sharp, which consists of me either running away, screaming, or ripping axes out of peoples' hands. If I get voted in, I'd probably explode from pure terror before I even reached the arena.

Eventually, I decide that there is no point in delaying the inevitable. I pull myself off of my four-poster, and I open my door. I walk down the hallway connecting my bedroom to my kitchen. The kitchen is dark when I reach it, due to it still being early morning, and my family not having enough money to pay the lighting bill. I light a small candle, and I see a shadow of a man holding a knife.

I freeze and look at the shape in horror, knowing that he broke into my house, and has come to kill me and my family. Maybe there is a more reasonable solution, but witnessing murder makes it hard to trust something, and deletes your sense of reason, which is why I charge at the person, screaming, "PUT THAT DOWN!"

"What the—" the person shouts, as I tackle him to the floor. The knife flies out of his hand, and lodges itself in the table, as I repeatedly punch him in the stomach. The figure grunts as he knocks me off him. I fly onto the dirt floor of our home, hitting my head on the ground. As I rub my aching head, I look up at the figure, and as I squint through the candlelight, I recognize the dark brown hair and scowling features of my brother, Lucas. I glance over at the table, and I see a loaf of bread, that he was probably trying to cut.

"O-oh. I'm so sorry, Lu—"

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" he interrupts. "Can I just slice myself a piece of bread without your mental disease getting in the way?"

I whimper as he says these words. No matter how many times he calls me insane and acts like I belong in an asylum, it still hurts like the venom of a tracker-jacker, painfully targeting the most sensitive parts of your brain in order to drive you insane.

"Look," he continues, "I know that you watched our brother's murder, and I know it was pretty traumatizing, but wrestling me during breakfast seems like a new low for you."

"I—I—"

"Do me a favor, and when you're at the reaping, act like you don't know me. In fact, don't even talk to me. Just do that, and I will gladly do the same for you." He promptly turns around and walks out or the kitchen before being blocked by our mother.

"Lucas Alexander Spurling, what do you think you're doing?"

"I was making myself toast when her lack of sanity barged into the room and started attacking me!"

"You know better than to use a knife around her."

"Well, she's the one who should know better. Normal people with a brain know better than to have psychotic freakouts when someone holds a knife."

I leave my mom and brother to quarrel, and I return to my room. I slam the door shut, and I begin to cry as soon as I throw myself on my bed. It's not my fault I freak out. Well, it is, but I can't help it. Every time I see an axe, or any weapon for that matter, I think about Marcus, and I feel like that axe will attack me, and my head will end up in a forest somewhere. Only this time, nobody will care.

After lying on my bead for a while, I walk over to my closet and pick out a reaping dress. It's a plain, scarlet dress that is made out of silk, which is extremely tight on me, as my family isn't really that rich. We used to be richer than most families in District 7, but when I was eight, my father died of a heart attack. We blew most of out money on a doctor, but he wasn't able to save him. We fell into the conditions that most of the people in District 12 suffered, but somehow, we had food on our plates every night.

I snap out of my thoughts, and I head towards my door. As I walk towards the doorway, I glance over to my bed post. I walk over to it, and I take my brother's medal off it, and I put it on underneath my dress, as I feel I need the comfort of my brother today. I leave my room for real this time, and I meet my mother and brother in the living room. My brother is wearing a classic black tux, and my mother is wearing a stormy gray dress. Without a word, they get off the couch, and lead me towards the door.

It is a cold, cloudy day as we take the long walk to the reaping. We walk through a forest on our way. I had always loved these woods as a child, and my brothers and I loved climbing the trees, and playing in the leaves in the fall. I was naïve in those days, and I now know what these woods really contain. We pass lumberjacks scurrying back their houses to get ready for the reaping after staying up all night. They swing their axes along their sides carelessly, and I fear they will fly out of their hands, and impale themselves in some innocent person's neck. I want go talk sense into them (and by talk, I mean scream), but my mom maintains a tight grip on my wrist, preventing me from doing so.

The sun begins to peek through the clouds when we reach the square. Reluctantly, I get in the line of kids preparing to get registered. I hesitate to walk to the table when it's my turn, but eventually, I walk up to it. "Alexis Spurling." The peacekeeper grabs hold of my hand, and jabs the needle into my finger. I give a little shriek as the peacekeeper analyzes the blood. "You may go," he says in a bored voice. Clutching my finger, I enter the sixteen-year-olds's section.

It is about noon when Mayor Emerson takes the stage. I hate him as much as everyone else in District 7 did, for passing a law stating that anyone over the age of sixteen had to work eight hours a day, cutting down trees day after day, no matter if you are sick, dying, injured, or mentally scarred. I had heard whispers in the streets about a possible revolt, but the people were promptly arrested when a peacekeeper overheard, and the thoughts of revenge diminished, until the announcement of the quell.

I don't pay any attention to his speech, so I am caught by surprise when he finishes, and introduces our escort, Amerieda Poudel. Her hair is a bright teal color, and it sticks up at weird angles, with the help of some fancy Capitol hairspray, and her skin is also teal and contains many silver tattoos. "Envelope, please?" she asks the mayor in her raspy accent.

The mayor hands her a small, golden envelope, and she used her long fingernails to pick off the seal of the capitol on the envelope. She then carefully grabs the paper inside, and reads the name on the paper inside. "Alexis Spurling."

I should have been expecting this. I've heard the name they've given me, and I occasionally hear whispers about me, but yet it's still unbelievable. I frantically tell myself that it is all a bad dream, and I pinch myself in an effort to wake myself up, but I don't succeed because it _is_ real, and my worst nightmare has become a reality.

I have been voted into the Hunger Games.

"N-n-n—" I stammer. "No, no, NO!" I break out into a mad dash, and I bolt away from the square, crashing into many other children in the process. A brigade of peacekeepers blocks me from leaving the square, and they grab my arms and legs, and drag me to the square. I scream, cry, and struggle, but nothing stops the peacekeepers from dragging me up onto the stage. They still grab me when I stand up on the stage, to prevent me from running away again.

I look out into the crowd, and the majority of them don't seem to care. They don't show any emotion, but inside, they are bursting with excitement, because I don't stand a chance in the arena, and as soon as the gong sounds, I'll be skewered by a Career.

The escort steps away from me, and asks for the male's envelope. The mayor hands another golden envelope, and she opens it with an evil smirk on her face, like she put a trap on a pair of shoes she wanted, preventing anyone else from buying it. "Jonas Emerson."

I don't recognize the boy with big brown eyes and dark brown hair from the seventeen's section that slowly makes his way towards the stage, but I know the name. He's the mayor's son, probably voted in as an act of rebellion against his harsh laws. I don't blame them, even though I personally didn't vote him in. I just scribbled someone's name down, and whoever it was, they didn't get picked.

The mayor storms off the stage, as his son stumbles his way on. "District 7, I am pleased to present your tributes for the first Quarter Quell: Alexis Spurling and Jonas Emerson!"

Tears stream down my face, and I barely meet Jonas's gaze as he shakes my trembling hand. As soon as he lets go, the same group of Peacekeepers that dragged me to the stage earlier grab my arms and legs again and carry me to the Justice Building.

I lay on my stomach on the gray loveseat in the Justice Building, bawling my eyes out for who knows how long until my family enters, arguing as usual.

"Look, for the last time, I didn't vote for her," Lucas says. "I voted for that one goth girl down the street."

I blink my eyes. Did my brother just say he didn't vote for me?

"Don't lie to me!" my mother growls, slapping him. "You said you hated her guts, and you wanted her to die, and I quote, 'an extremely gory and painful death'!"

"I never said that," my brother argues. "Sure, I've called her a freak, and I guess I could have been more supportive of her, but she's still my little sister, and I would never send my own kin to death."

"Don't make up stories to make me sympathize for you," my mother continues. "Don't come back until you've accepted that you are an asshole." She promptly turns around, and exits the room without saying goodbye to her daughter.

I get off the loveseat and look at my brother. "You were really telling the truth?"

"Of course I was," he replies. "Listen, I'm not good at this type of thing…but, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for just…being a bad brother, and calling you all those nasty things, and just letting you down when you needed me the most."

I'm crying again, but not because I'm upset. It's because…I'm happy. I'm crying because I no longer feel that the entire world hates me, and I now have something to return home to. I embrace my brother, and he already knows that he is forgiven.

"I know this will be tough for you, but I want you to try to come back for me. I'm not saying you have to fight, just return."

I smile for the first time in two years. "Yes, yes I will."

The Peacekeepers drag my brother away, and the fear returns, but the comfort I feel from the conversation soothes it, and even though I will have to face my worse fear, I know I have somebody cheerleading me through it.


	9. District Eight: Outcast the Outcasts

_**Hey guys, so sorry that reapings have been going up later in the day than intended. My computer crashed, plus I've been sick with this concussion. I'm doing…somewhat better? I've got a bad sinus infection now, so they're hoping that that's what's causing me to be so freaking dizzy all the time. I'm hoping so, so that it's an easy fix.**_

_**I've lost a lot of stuff I was working on—hopefully only temporarily by my computer being out of commission. I'm using my hubby's laptop but it's slower and the keyboard is like…really weird.**_

_**Thank you for your well wishes. Let me try to tackle a few things since my computer is currently too slow to do many reviews right now.**_

_**Non-Career tributes having Career-like tributes—well, it's a Quell, people vote in who they hate, who they think will suit them best (i.e. who could win), by fluke, or by who's different. So stronger or weird tributes are more likely to be voted in.**_

_**There may be a few errors that we let slip by, and we're sorry for that. Belles and I are the ones that spend hours combing over chapters and correcting them and changing last-minute things and asking the authors to change things that don't agree with our chapters or canon. Typically, that's when we get a complete revision so that our now pristine proofread chapter is obsolete and have to start over. I just want you guys to understand the time and effort we put into this. I may spend 2-3 hours (when I'm not concussed) a day working on my fanfiction for reviews. But at any one point I can wind up spending 4-8 hours a day working on this collab.**_

_**That being said, eventually we'll go back and try to clean up continuity errors etc. We're just now ourselves getting to look at/receive part of 24 Capitol chapters that will give you a chance to get to know the characters more. We want to hear your comments and thoughts on them; like all writers, we take them into consideration as we develop the plot our story.**_

_**Now for a little…teaser. We've had the arena planned for…three months I think. I think in some ways, it's more terrifying than most arenas we see. There are clues in Tears of Blood for Bring Them to Their Knees about what's coming, but I don't think you'll get it. Point is, no one is ready for this, and none of our authors even know yet. When they find out in a week or two—selectively, as we start handing out arena chapters and deciding deaths…well, be terrified.**_

_**We've also planned out two more Gamemaker chapters so far. One will be right after the bloodbath to recap on the reasoning of the arena and the second will be when it's time to pull a big muttation/terrorizing on the tributes.**_

_**But anyways, I'll shut up. Now on to the tributes!**_

* * *

**Damian Blackwater of District 8**

**By xXTeamFinnickXx**

* * *

_"I'm slowly getting closure, I guess it's really over,  
I'm finally getting better,  
And now I'm picking up the pieces, I'm spending all of these years,  
Putting my heart back together  
'Cause the day I thought I'd never get through,  
I got over you."  
— Daughtry_

* * *

The sound is candy to my ears, like a sweet lullaby would be to a small child. The loud, angry, confused shouts of the pair of Peacekeepers behind me brings a smirk to my face. This has to be the best part of my life; watching as these people, the ones who are supposedly the brightest and strongest in the district, trip over their own feet, screaming unintelligible insults at their number one most wanted criminal. And he happens to be only seventeen years old.

He also happens to be me.

My booted feet make next to no noise as I retreat down the alleyway, my loot in hand. Stupid baker. He left his door wide open and went a few shops down to discuss some trading with another merchant. He was basically _asking_ for someone to steal from him. This bag of food and money should keep me satisfied for another few days. Thank God. I haven't had something to eat for…Well, for a long time.

I shouldn't be surprised that the baker was such a moron. I mean, about ninety-seven percent of the human race is like him. Alright, maybe not _exactly _like him. Personally, I believe there are three standard types of people. The first group—Class A, as I like to call them—consists of the people who never know what they're doing and are constantly making fools of themselves. Like the kind of people who can't do simple math, who have to think ordinary actions through several times before finally getting it right, who—

"Quick, he's getting away!"

"I can see that. Your gun, use your gun!"

"Right! I've got it, I just…Watch out for that—"

_CRASH!_

Yeah, like those two _ingenious _law-enforcers behind me.

The second classification of humans, Class B, is a lot more serious. These are the people who may have the common sense and book smarts, but what they do with it is completely wrong. I've seen some pretty good examples of these type of people. They're the kind who come home late at night, drunk and in a rage. The kind who take their anger out on their poor, defenseless son who hasn't done a thing wrong. They'll beat him and scold him and scream at him for no reason other than to get some sort of twisted satisfaction. Sometimes this type of idiot isn't even the direct offender, just a bystander who won't get off their lazy ass to help out the victim. You know, like the wife who simply sits and watches her husband take a belt to his son's face, not even attempting to take a stand.

…Not that that's ever happened to me or anything.

Anyway, let's move on to Class C. I thank my lucky stars every day that I happen to belong to this rare group. You see, unlike the other two classes, the people who don't even deserve to be walking this earth, the third kind of human is a lot more intelligent and rational. We know what we're doing most of the time. We're grateful for what we've got and we don't take anything for granted. We plan out our actions and evenly ration our resources. And most importantly, we're kind, generous, and eager to stand up for what's right.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. How could I, a renowned thief, possibly be grateful, kind, and generous. Let me explain a few things for you. Most people would think that I am the complete opposite of grateful. I should be happy and content with what I've got. The thing is, I am. I'm grateful for my backpack, my clothes, and my life. That's about all I have to actually be grateful for. Food, money, that's all stuff I wouldn't have if I didn't steal it. I have to make the most of what I was given. I wasn't _given_ riches or anything like that, but instead, I was _given_ the gifts of stealth and speed. So, I use them to my advantage. I use those skills to steal things that I _can_ be grateful for.

If that makes any sense. After all, I wouldn't expect this complex way of life to be something you'd be capable of understanding. It's very rare to come across a person like me, you know.

Still, I'm leaving out some numbers from the equation, aren't I? I haven't told you how, despite common belief, I can be kind and generous. This is very simple, actually. I'm nice to those who deserve it. If a truly good-hearted person ever needs my assistance, I assure you, I will be as loyal as can be until they get their justice. But, as I said before, people like me, genuinely caring and compassionate, are tough to come by. We're so rare that I haven't actually encountered another yet. That may be why I come off as arrogant, rude, and abrasive to most people. Those people are idiots, so I treat them how idiots deserve to be treated.

You probably think I'm a mind reader or something, because yet again, I know what you must think of me. You think I'm a jerk, a petty thief, a heartless monster. Hopefully, one day, I can prove to you that I'm not. I'm just highly misunderstood.

Think of it this way. Have you ever been one-hundred and ten percent sure of something, so sure that there was never even the smallest doubt in your mind, but then had the rest of the world say you were wrong?

My life is like that.

…You don't get it, do you?

Why am I even wasting my time? This lifestyle isn't the kind that just anyone can understand. Odds are, you're either Class A or Class B anyway. You'd never understand me. No one does. Then again, no one has been through what I've been through.

That's the trouble with the members of Class C. We never lead easy lives. We're always the thief or the abused child or the homeless beggar. Sometimes, we're even all three. People just don't know what we're going through. They assume that because our way of thinking is different that we're no-good, law-breaking scumbags. Yes, some of us may be law-breakers, but we wouldn't have to be if society wasn't jam-packed with morons! While we may be outlaws, I can assure you that not one of us is a hardcore villain or a legitimate jerk. Maybe, just maybe, people would see that if they gave us a chance.

I guess I've kept you long enough. Let's get back to the story, shall we?

As I weave my way through these alleys which I've come to know very well, a glance over my shoulder reveals to me that the two moronic Peacekeepers, who I've managed to shake long ago, must have called for backup. Unfortunately for me, he appears to be much more intelligent. I'd put him in Class B.

The man in all white draws his gun and fires a clumsy shot. I don't even think he really aimed, as the bullet strikes the brick wall of a building to my left, causing a puff of dust to form. I bet he doesn't want me dead. He wants to bring me in alive to get the reward placed on me. I'm honored that these guys are going so far as to offering money to whoever turns me in, but it pains me to let them know that it's never going to happen.

I can discuss that later. As of right now, I've got a cop on my heels, and he's much faster than the oafs I was eluding before. I need a plan. He's going to be on top of me in less than a minute.

My mind is beginning to formulate an escape when it's interrupted by loud crash. I whirl around to see a pile of wooden crates, probably stacked by the owner of a shop, crashing down on the Peacekeeper. He grunts as he's taken down, his gun skidding a few feet out of his reach. I begin to chuckle, slowing my pace and turning back to approach the pinned man.

That's when I see it. From the crates' original home, a small, dark figure darts across the ground and bounds up my leg, scurrying up my body until it rests on my shoulder.

"Bandit," I say with a smile. "How did you do that?"

My companion squeaks, a noise that I guess is the rodent equivalent to a laugh.

By the way, Bandit is my pet ferret. Or weasel. Or mouse, rat, squirrel, I don't even know. His actual species is unknown to me. I just call him a ferret to make things simple. I found him a few years ago and named him after his appearance. His long, sleek body is a dark gray and over his eyes is a darker patch of fur. I always thought it looked like the kind of mask a bandit would wear, so that became his name. Ironically, I had no idea at the time that my future would include actual robberies.

Sometimes I wish Bandit was human. If he was, he'd definitely be in Class C with me. He's my only friend, the only person (can he be considered a person?) I can trust. He aids me in my heists in any way he can, which turns out to be more than you'd expect. Sure, taking care of him is a pain sometimes, but hey, this is where my other personality, the kind and caring side, takes over. When I met him, he was just a baby, abandoned by his parents to die on the streets. I couldn't just let him starve, so I took him under my wing. He doesn't eat much, so that's a relief.

Now looming over the trapped peacekeeper, I throw him my winning smile. "I suppose you're going to shoot me now?" I taunt. "Oh wait! That's right." I step over to the gun. "You need this, don't you?" In one movement, I scoop up the weapon and aim it straight for the man's head.

"Please!" he exclaims, burying his head in the ground, the rest of his body shivering in fear.

I laugh at him, lowering the gun. "Pathetic," I mutter. Isn't he supposed to be fearless? Strong? Noble? Like I would _actually_ shoot him. I'm a thief, not a murderer.

Nonchalantly, I toss the weapon to the side before kicking some dirt in the peacekeeper's face, spinning on my heels and retreating as fast as possible.

* * *

"Knock it off!" I yell, my laughter making it choppy and uneven. Bandit scurries around my neck, his dark fur rubbing against my skin all over, making me laugh uncontrollably while I try to digest some of my food from earlier. If anyone else were to _ever_ try tickling me, they'd most likely be on the floor right now.

Unfortunately, our good time is interrupted by the loud voice of the head peacekeeper. Even here, in the most remote corner of District 8, we have the speakers set up, just to keep everyone informed and, most importantly, brainwashed. There's a slim pole with the device set up on the very top just a few yards away from my shack. Believe me, I must have disassembled it a billion times, but the peacekeepers keep fixing it, letting me know that I can't escape their power.

"A reminder to all citizens," the peacekeeper says into the microphone. "Today is the marvelous Reaping Day. Remember, attendance is mandatory, and to all the eligible children, we wish you luck. Hopefully you've made a big enough impression on your district to have the honor of fighting for us in this year's Games."

"Shit," I say out loud. I had almost forgotten, this year isn't any normal year. Thanks to the outburst from the boy from District 4 last year, we've all been royally screwed. Word on the street is that from now on, every twenty-five years will bring a twist to the Hunger Games, just to remind us all of the Capitol's might.

And this year, the tributes were all voted in. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Not that I have anything to worry about. Sure, you'd think with all the robberies I've been staging I'd have every citizen in the district voting for me, but there's a catch. I happen to be extremely elusive. Not even the Peacekeepers know who I truly am or where I live or who my family is. Of course, there's still the suspicions, but all anyone can do is _assume_ I'm responsible. There's no concrete proof, and as long as there's no proof, there's no punishment. So for now, I'm safe.

Speaking of where I live, I guess I should fill you in on all the details. Well, this place is definitely…cozy. My current crib used to be a small storage unit where materials would be shoved if there was no more room in the main facilities. That being said, it's not very big at all. Maybe about the size of an average living room. In the corner is a curtained-off area with a toilet for any workers who needed to "go", and the rest of the space was barren until I showed up.

Like I said, it's abandoned, so there's no one around to fix it up. I'd do it myself, but let me remind you; thief. No money. Ring a bell?

The windows, or what's left of them, are cracked, shattered, and filthy. The door has been knocked off its hinges years ago, leaving me exposed to the harsh weather outside. The floor was torn up, revealing the dirt ground with patches of dead grass here and there, and the walls are made of uneven, jagged planks of wood. The entire building is shifted to one side and I was forced to position a few crumpled pillars to keep it upright.

There's no place like home, eh?

Of course, I always have my real home to fall back on. You know, where my parents live. But we haven't spoken in years, not since I ran away. I don't really like to talk about them much.

Anyway, I decide it's in my best interest to head for the town square now. While I may remain a mystery to the public, the government keeps tabs on me. They know I exist and that I'm a citizen of this district. So, even though I couldn't care less about who this year's tributes are, I pick myself up off the ground and head for the door.

On my way out, I pass by a window and figure I might as well look somewhat presentable. I comb through my overgrown, but somehow still spiky, jet black hair, ignoring the excessive amount of oil l I can feel in it. My narrow, gray eyes scan my pale face for any visible dirt that can be picked off right away before deciding I look fine and stepping out the door (or lack thereof).

"Stay here, Bandit," I order. "I'll be back."

My friend squeals in protest, but he plops his butt down on a pile of trash and watches me leave.

* * *

It looks like the ceremony has already begun by the time I reach the square. The escort, an absurd-looking woman I've declared to be in Class A, has already picked the name of the female tribute, and I hear, "…Powers, the lucky girl with the most votes in the district!"

_Powers, Powers, _I think to myself. Where have I head that name before? After I sign in and begin making my way to the seventeen-year-old boys' section, I catch a glimpse of her, standing on stage while the escort babbles away. Right, she's the crazy drunk. I've seen her around a few times. Oh God, she looks like her stomach's about to blow. Too much alcohol maybe? Well, not enough is the more realistic answer.

And just like that, in only a few seconds, she does it. I can't shake the feeling that it was intentional as the escort shrinks away from the mess, screeching like she was just shot in the throat. I, on the other hand, crack a smile and begin to laugh to myself. You know, if I didn't hate people, I might actually like this girl.

"Ah!" The gasp of pain escapes my mouth as my face collides with the cobblestone ground. I got distracted by the show onstage that I wasn't watching where I was going. I must have tripped… right in front of the entire district. A whole section of people shift their gaze to me to see what happened.

_Geez, haven't they ever seen someone trip before? Morons._

As the escort carries on, I get to my feet and begin to wipe the dirt off my pants. Being in the middle of the large aisle that splits the crowd in half, the clouds of dust fly right into the faces of some other audience members, causing them to cough hysterically. Oops.

Suddenly, shaking me out of my own little world, I hear it. The name of the male tribute. Oh, trust me, I'm pissed. Actually, I'm flat out infuriated. These people _voted _for him. My fellow citizens, my neighbors. Yup, definitely feeling the love.

"Do we have a…Damian Blackwater?" the escort gags.

Immediately, the crowd starts to mumble things to each other, searching for the master thief of District 8.

_Idiots. I'm right here, standing in the middle of all of you. Are you blind?_

Somehow, my anger transmits to sarcasm as I laugh loudly, "Would you look at that." Now, everyone's eyes are on me, every single one of them.

_Well, you got their attention. Now what, genius?_

Casually, I begin to walk to the stage, hiding my emotions behind my stoic expression. If I had my way, I'd scream out of rage and head for the hills, but let's face reality here. I'm fast, but I can't outrun an entire army of Peacekeepers.

You know, now that I think about it, I really should be upset or something. I mean, when's the last time someone from District 8 made it home alive? I'm as good as dead, everyone knows it.

Then I remember, I'm _not_ as good as dead. The fact of the matter is, most of the tributes will belong to either Class A or B. I'm bound to be the most intelligent one out of the bunch. I stand as much of a chance as one of those brutal Careers, maybe even more.

Besides, what do I even have to go home to?

Stepping onstage and taking my place beside the girl, Anya I think it is, I remember exactly what I have to fight for.

Didn't I tell him to stay at home?

Bandit comes scurrying up the steps of the stage, barreling towards me like a child who's had way too much caffeine. I curse under my breath as he bounds onto my foot, climbing up my leg. The escort screeches in terror and steps into Anya's mound of barf, sparking an even louder shriek. She runs around in a small circle as if it'll teleport her away from this mess.

"Rodent!" she screams. "Someone do something!"

"On it," barks one of the Peacekeepers from the side of the stage. He jogs up to me and prepares to snatch up Bandit and do who-knows-what with him.

Call me crazy, but this animal is the only thing I care about in the world. He's the only thing _worth_ caring about. I won't let him get hurt. I haven't before, and I won't today.

"Back off," I mutter, shoving away the Peacekeeper's hand. By this point, the crowd is in a state of confusion and amusement. After all, you've got the escort running around and making noises like a deranged dolphin, me defending a ferret from a cop, and Anya snickering at the entire scene.

The Peacekeeper glares at me like I'm a criminal. Well, technically, I am, but that's not the point. "Young man," he says with a tone he probably thinks intimidates me. "You know this counts as assault, correct? Do you realize how much trouble you could be in for assaulting a Peacekeeper?"

_Are you kidding me? I pushed your hand. It's not like I stabbed you or anything._

He reaches for me again, but I back up. "And do _you_ realize how much trouble you could get in for assaulting a _tribute_?"

The man makes a desperate lunge for Bandit, but I'm not having any of it. We go into a fit of shoving and punching until a few others show up to defend him, two of which restrain my arms while Bandit is kicked off the stage by the first man. I can hear the yelp of pain all the way up here.

"Bandit!" I shout, kicking behind me at the Peacekeepers. "Let me go, you _imbeciles!"_

Despite my protests, the Peacekeepers lift me by my arms and forcefully drag me towards the Justice Building.

* * *

Quite honestly, I didn't expect any visitors. I mean, who would want to see me?

That's why I'm surprised when a middle-aged woman walks through the door, her dark red hair cut short and her gray eyes looking into mine. Her face is heavily wrinkled, making her look older than she actually is.

"Damian," she starts in a frail voice.

"Do I know you?"

The look on her face displays sorrow and pain, but right now, I don't even care. All I can think about is poor Bandit. He's just a harmless ferret. Why were they making such a big deal over him? Who's going to feed him, assuming he's still alive? The drop from the stage may not seem like a lot, but he's a small little dude. That fall was lethal.

"Yes," she says. "It's me, your—"

"Did I rob your house before or something?"

"Your mother!" she says in a sudden outburst.

I blink a few times. My…My mom? That can't be…But she's…She's so…

"You're old," I finally say. Most teenagers would be at least somewhat sentimental if they were being reunited with their mother after three years, but not me. Our history isn't the cleanest.

"I'm forty-eight," she says calmly. "They're called stress wrinkles."

I roll my eyes, a bored chuckle coming out before I spit, "Great, thanks for the notice. I guess Dad couldn't get off his drunk ass to come with you? Still as lazy as before, I see."

That's when her eyes tear up. Should I say something to make her feel better? …Eh, she'll get over it.

"That's not it."

"Oh really? Maybe he's out cheating on you again."

"No—"

"How do you—"

"He's dead, Damian!"

The words hit me like a cannonball. I raise my head to look into her eyes so I can determine whether she's telling the truth or not. My heart stops and my lungs cease to work. For a brief moment, only a split second, I feel something unknown to my body. There's a sort of emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I get woozy and feel ready to puke, but nothing comes up. My mouth is completely dry and won't let me form words. I feel…No way. Is this…?

No, it's not. That man was always a douche to me. I don't care whether he's alive or not. He was a terrible father, and I have the scars to prove it. As quickly as the foreign emotion emerged, it disappears, leaving my heart as cold as it was before.

"How?" I say lowly, more like a demand than a question.

"Two years ago," she speaks softly. "He was…He wasn't himself."

"He was drunk," I cut in. "That _is_ himself."

"Fine, he was drunk. He was walking around the district, looking for you. He wanted to find you so badly. He wanted you to come home again. But he…He went to go cross the street and…"

"Get out," I order. "You're a liar. Get out of my face."

"Damian, I—"

"You're _lying_!" I scream. "He wasn't looking for me, he didn't _care_ about me! _You_ didn't care about me. You just let him get his way and beat the crap out of me whenever he felt like it. You could have stepped up, intervened, but you didn't because you're a coward, and now you're a liar. Get _out_!"

"That's not how it happened."

"It _is_ how it happened, you're just too stupid to see it!"

When the appearance of despair crosses her face this time, I don't feel even the slightest bit upset. I'm glad. She deserves this after the way I was treated. This woman should be dead right along with her husband.

My message must have gotten to her, because she stands from her place on the couch and walks to the door. After pausing for a minute, she places something on the ground and whispers, "Your token."

"I don't want it."

But she doesn't answer. She just leaves. Fine, good riddance.

I stay on the couch, tapping my foot anxiously until curiosity gets the better of me and I walk over to the object on the ground.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

It's his amulet. I know it is, because it has his initials engraved on the front. _DB_. Yeah, that's right, I had the misfortune of being named after him.

I rub my fingers across the cheap metal necklace. The surface is smooth, but weak. It must be decades old by now. Slowly, I pop open the rust-covered lid, revealing a picture of me when I was a child.

A wave of confusion takes over my mind. He always had this locket on. He wore it no matter what he was doing. And it contained a picture of…me? Is this my mother's way of trying to convince me that he cared?

I smile, and it's genuine, heartfelt. Why? Because it brings me such joy to crush the pathetic little accessory under the sole of my boot.

* * *

**Anya Powers of District 8**

**By nightfuries**

* * *

_"Alcohol is necessary for a man so that he can have a good opinion of himself, undisturbed be the facts."_

_—_Unknown

* * *

Ah, mornings. The epitome of worldly beginnings. A time for new things to dawn. Who couldn't love mornings? What, with the first hints of a gigantic fireball rising into the air and dooming us to hours of awful heat and drought as it continuously goes about its day attempting to blind us all. Oh, and the little demons trying to pass themselves off as 'birds,' squawking and cackling out raucous laughter that no ear can hide from. And who could forget the fact that each time that fireball rises and those demons come out to play, it's a bright, loud reminder that all of mankind must draw themselves reluctantly from the comfortable clutches of sleep and rise for yet another dull, dreary day full of nothing but work and pain.

Okay, so I'm not exactly a morning person. But hey, I have a good reason for it; a reason that can be explained in the one simple word that is a—

"...hangover." Merie shakes her head. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that," I grumble as my head pounds, sending agony shooting through my brain at regular intervals. _Come on, Anya, this isn't exactly your first hangover. Get it together and remember the tests._

Test one: attempting to sit. Slowly, my aching muscles begin to move, almost like rusted joints (though in light of the events of last night, I'd say it was more a case of the joints being too well-oiled) as they work to pull me into a sitting position. But eventually, I make it. _Good. Very good, Anya. Keep going._

Test two: opening eyes. I remove my hands from my face and gradually lift my eyelids, the pain of the headache causing me to squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Okay, back to being closed normally, as though in sleep; now let's just open them a wee bit more...

_No! No, no, no; bad, should not attempt this test too early in the morning. Abort mission, close eyes again, sink back into the blessed darkness that isn't populated by evil, agony-inducing light rays. Yes, isn't that better? Ahh..._

While I attempt to clear away the burning image of the bright sun that seems to have been seared onto the back of my eyelids, I listen for the sounds of everyone else waking up. As Merie is the only one who doesn't drink, the task brings about just as many groans and grunts of discomfort as I emitted when I was first woken up. Our group's numbers are constantly changing, people coming and going about as often as I wake up with a hangover (which is _really_ often), but we were "founded" by Gerier and Losan, two old guys whose levels of sanity are quite debatable. The two both lost their jobs in the factories around twelve years ago, when the employers found easier, more efficient ways of transporting the textiles from the factories to the trains that shipped the products off to the Capitol, thereby getting rid of all the employees whose work focused around this task (i.e. Gerier and Losan). Without the minuscule paycheck they were granted from work, the two lost their tiny homes and were forced to either find new jobs or live on the streets.

Let's see; on one hand, we have a life spent in endless, dull toil, working until you're ready to collapse just to make enough to barely keep yourself from starvation, or you could watch from the comfortable sidelines of the streets and laugh at the other people stuck in that kind of life, getting food by 'politely asking' the generous citizens of the district or just scrounging around in those convenient, gleaming silver bins people leave outside their houses with leftovers contained inside.

Well, you can tell which option_ I _prefer. And my opinion seemed to be shared by the two men as well. Banding together, Gerier and Losan formed their little homeless duo, taking turns to beg for food (speaking from experience, people don't tend to like one person asking twice for something. But if there's two of you asking once, everything turns out just wonderfully), searching together for the best alleys to sleep in and, of course, keeping an eye out for the Peacekeepers. Technically being homeless isn't a crime, but believe me, I've tried using the 'victim of society' excuse on them. Does not work. And if one of them's in a bad mood and just feels like hitting something, they come along and arrest one of us for 'harassment' (which we call begging) or 'disorderly conduct' (which we call enjoying the lovely effects of a drink or two). For the most part, though, the Peacekeepers leave us alone, and in return, we find more secluded alleys to sleep, beg, drink and...Nope, come to think of it, that's pretty much our entire schedule.

"Why're we up so early?" Gerier complains, his words still sounding slurred despite the night's sleep in between the time when we had all of the drinks.

"It's nearly noon."

"Why're we up so early?"

Merie pauses uncertainly, and at the look on her face, I almost feel bad for her (I finally managed to open my eyes and tolerate the sun. Jeez, why does that thing have to be so freaking bright?). As I said, people come and go from the streets, and she's the newest addition to our little crew. It was only a couple weeks ago that some machinery in one of District 8's many textile factories malfunction and started a fire, killing six or seven people including Merie's husband. Fabric burns fast, you know.

Anyways, the part that interested us was that Merie received a small amount of money in compensation for her husband's death during "actions to help better the society of Panem." Before she knew it, Merie was standing outside the Justice Building with a handful of coins and a mind full of grief and sorrow, with no idea how to get rid of her depression. Of course, being the kind, caring folk that we are, we stepped up to offer her one of our many ways of banishing nasty thoughts (and pretty much everything else, for that matter). This was providing she buy drinks for all of us. And, surprisingly, she did. People do strange things when they grieve. She'd only had one or two rounds, but apparently that was more than she could handle, and after what she called "a terrible, sickening experience" (in other words, my, Gerier, and Losan's definition of 'fun'), she decided never to drink again. Well, the three of us made bets on how long _that_ resolve would last. Unfortunately, she's still all for the idea, and my bet of a month before she cracked is quickly running out. Maybe I should start _persuading_ her to go back to the bottle...

"The reapings are today," Merie finally says. "Don't we have to...prepare?"

I snort at that, and both Gerier and Losan laugh outright. Yes, she's new, and we should probably be more understanding. Hey, everyone has flaws, alright? Besides, you'd think our methods of preparation would be pretty obvious. But eh, I guess people tend to miss the things that are non-existent.

"Sure, let's prepare," I answer and turn to the shiny metal trashcan that is currently the alley's only other resident, making a big show of primping myself in the makeshift mirror, messing my hair this way and that which puts the two guys in hysterics. As always, the uneven, greasy black stands just fall back into the same knot they're always in, though I do decide to actually cut one part of my bangs with the broken piece of a knife we found while scrounging around inside the bins one time for dinner. It's been bothering me for a while anyways, that one chunk of hair is always hanging in my eyes. Unfortunately, my coordination is a little off this morning (through no fault of my own...sort of), and I end up cutting a lot smaller than I intended, making the bangs uneven once again. Ah well, it doesn't matter. If one bit of your hair is different than the other, people whisper about it being a failed attempt at a nice hairdo. But if it's all in one nice, uneven, coordinated mess, you can call it a style. That's what our escort's been doing for the past few years, after all.

Anyways, I couldn't care less what anyone thinks about my appearance. After a few years spent living on the grungy, dirty streets of District 8, you really can't fool yourself into thinking that you've still got supermodel-type looks. Plus, if you're too egotistical to notice your own image, then there'll always be the oh-so-kind citizens of the district to walk by and make totally polite, with the best intentions comments like, "God, take a bath!"

Merie seems to have gotten the idea that there's really no ways _for_ us to prepare, so she gives up trying to suggest it. I begin to wonder if this makes her yearn for her life before, back when she had a house to go home to; I'm sure she'd try to go back to it, if the house hadn't belonged to her husband's mother. Apparently it was only with begrudging acceptance that she'd come to let Merie stay in the first place, and after the death of her son, the woman wanted nothing more to do with her supposed daughter-in-law. So, really, we're all that Merie has.

Strange, that statement came across as vaguely pathetic. Wonder what that's all about.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere today," Losan groans, lying back down with his hands over his face. "I'm just going to lay down here and _die._"

"As legitimate as that excuse sounds," Gerier begins, crossing over to his friend, "I don't think the Peacekeepers would be as understanding. Besides, we've done this a million times. What's the matter with you?"

The matter was that on the night before the reapings, people tend to be feeling a bit more generous, and as a result we managed to scrounge up more money, resulting in more alcohol. Gerier may be a heavy drinker like the rest of us (excluding Merie), but he, at least, knows when to _stop_. Losan and I, on the other hand, we kept up until there was no more money left to buy the stuff. But hey, you can't blame us. _Everyone _hates the reapings. And what better way to make them disappear than to drown yourself in a beautiful, alcohol-induced haze?

Some more incomprehensible mumblings are heard from Losan as Gerier grabs one bottle that somehow managed to keep its contents after last night. "Here," he says, shoving it in the other's face. "Makes it go away."

"_Really_?" Merie asks, the doubt in her voice evident.

"Of course," I answer. "You know the saying: The only way to get rid of the side effects of alcohol is by drinking more alcohol. Or maybe it's...oh, just give me the bottle."

Losan takes a long swig and then hands it to me before wiping a hand across his mouth. "So, we planning on betting again this year?"

The reapings can actually be a wonderful money-maker for us on the streets; all we have to do is get a hold of some cash and then bet on what two kids we think'll get reaped. Sure, most of the time we're wrong, but I remember the year when I was sixteen our guess had been right; we'd gotten _so_ drunk that night. I don't remember it, but I'm pretty sure it was awesome.

"We don't have anything left," Gerier says, checking our secret money vault (okay, so it's a dingy cardboard box shoved under a pile of trash).

"Someone'll give us something," I say, finishing taking the drink and passing the bottle to Merie, who refuses. Damn. "It is reaping day, after all."

"Speak of the devil," Losan says, gesturing down the road to the figure walking towards us. Excellent.

We quickly hide the bottle (people seem to disapprove of it) and try to make ourselves look as pitiable as possible. By now though, most people in the district have seen us, so it's really not an act we can pull off anymore. Still, can't hurt to try; at least until I manage to identify the figure we've picked out as our begging target.

I swear under my breath and then sigh. It's Mrs. Marlow, the butcher's wife. She _never_ sympathizes with us; in fact, she's usually one of the ones shooting those terribly polite comments about bathing at us. There goes our chance at making betting money today. I sit back against the wall of the building behind us and frown, but apparently Merie still hasn't caught on to the people you can ask for handouts and those you can't (begging's an art form to be perfected, you know) because as the woman walks by she still holds out her hands and asks, "Anything you can spare, ma'am?"

Mrs. Marlow stops at the sight of her, but the usual expression of contempt that she wears seems almost watered-down. Still, she makes to continue on her way and ignore our group, when all of a sudden her blue eyes lock with my own grey ones and some sort of emotion seems to flash in them. Then she reaches into her pocket and tosses a few coins onto the street in front of us before hurriedly striding off in the direction she was heading.

"Well, I do believe we've got a professional on our hands," Gerier says, scooping up the coins. "None of us can ever get _anything_ out of that old bat. What's your secret?

Merie shrugs. "For starters, I don't go around calling people old bats."

The two men crack up again, and after a brief second, Merie lets out a small smile as well, but I'm too caught up in my own thoughts to pay much attention to them. What was the emotion I saw in Mrs Marlow's eyes? Fear? Hate? No, that's not right; it was determined, yet at the same time, guilty. Like she'd made a decision, and she was sure she was right, but she still felt bad about it.

Ah, it won't do any good to think about it. People like that just make my brain hurt. Seriously, why can't the entire human race just settle for feeling only one emotion at a time? When I'm angry, you can tell, when I'm happy, you can tell, and when I'm snarky, _you can damn tell_. And I'm never any of those at the same time. Simplicity at its finest.

"Anya?"

I snap myself out of my reverie and turn towards Gerier.

"What are you thinking about?"

The idea of telling him about people and their messed up emotions doesn't even cross my mind. "Just who we should be betting on for the reapings," I say, grabbing the bottle again and standing as the others do too. We set off for the square at a slower pace than the others around us, trying to tune out the noises that seem incredibly amplified thanks to our hangovers.

"So, who do you think'll be picked? I have to say, you can rant all you want about the Capitol and their evil methods, but this Quarter Quell thing certainly makes our job easier." Gerier grins, and honestly, I have to agree. Usually it's a game of chance betting on the reaped kids, with the occasional tip of the odds when it comes to tesserae. But this year, we can just pick the most despised or hated kids and bet on them. "For the girl?"

"Petunia Venkle," I say, practically spitting out the words and the others make hopeful noises. Petunia Venkle is this daughter of a rich merchant in town and the snobbiest, most conceited teenager who ever lived. She's the pure _embodiment _of a spoiled brat. Not to mention that when she sees us, she never fails to mention how disgusting she believes we are and how she'd rather feed a crazed mutt than one of us. I'd like to take a crazed mutt and shove it up her—

"Wishful thinking, but probably not," Losan says. "Doubt her father would let that happen." Unfortunately, he's right, and our four votes against her probably won't do anything to get her picked. In the end, we decide on a weird, slightly crazy seeming fifteen-year-old, figuring that she'd probably be a likely choice.

"And the boy?" Gerier asks.

"What about that Blackwater kid?" I say, remembering the supposed 'thief' that runs amok in District 8. Apparently the Peacekeepers can't keep a handle on one seventeen-year-old, yet they can find the time to bother us (please, let's have a round of applause for our _fantastic_ law enforcers). I can imagine that he'd have made quite a few enemies; truth be told, I voted for him myself, just to see if he'd show up.

"So that's that, then," Gerier says, committing our choices to memory just as we reach the square. "Well, see you, Anya."

"My last reaping _and_ a Quarter Quell," I say, right before the Peacekeepers comes to lead me off to the eighteens section. "If we win those bets, we're getting _so_ drunk tonight."

"Like you even need to say it," Losan says, and we all laugh (well, Merie does a sort of hesitant smile) before parting ways; the three adults head to the area where all those who bet gather, and I'm left with a Peacekeeper towering behind me, ready to take my name and age.

"Anya Powers, eighteen," I say, wanting to just get this afternoon over with, but before I can head into my section, he stops me and points at the bottle I hadn't realized was still in my hand.

"You can't take that in there," he says gruffly.

I eye him for a second, trying to focus my eyes into the intense, intimidating gaze my mother used to pull off, but unfortunately it doesn't seem to work. There's also the option of using sarcasm or just being outright rude, but I have a feeling that'll only make him start yelling, which my terribly sensitive ears might not be able to take. So I just drain the contents of the bottle before shoving it into his hands and pushing past him into my section. _One afternoon full to the brim with boredom—begin_, I think dryly, watching as the mayor takes to the stage.

* * *

_Jeez, do these things really take this long?_ I find myself wondering approximately two hours later, while the mayor is _still_ droning on about the Dark Days. Time seems to pass by so much quicker when you're drunk. I sigh and try to will myself into the same state of careless oblivion that alcohol can bring, but it's not that simple. Too bad there wasn't enough of the drink left to get the job done properly; the only thing it left me with is a nauseating feeling in my stomach, most likely because of drinking while still suffering from a hangover. Yeah, probably not the smartest idea.

To pass the time, I find my gaze wandering through the crowd in front of me, my eyes skimming over each person. Thank God I managed to escape the fate that so many in my district are forced into (i.e. a dull, boring life manufacturing textiles). They just all look so_...similar_. I can't imagine how they can stand it without falling into depression.

Unexpectedly, my eyes lock with those of another boy, who must be my age to be standing in this section. I'm used to getting odd/disgusted looks from people at the reapings, but this seems like more than that. Argh, another case of these multiple emotions people enjoy feeling so often! Why, oh _why_ can't things just be beautifully _simple_? But then with a start I realize that I sort of recognize this boy; I mean, we see most people in the district pass by us on the street, but I had a slightly bigger interaction with this teen about three weeks ago (before Merie was with us), around the time we were all forced to head to the various voting stations set up throughout the district to choose which kids we thought deserved to be going into this year's annual Hunger Games.

"_Look at them all! Lining up like a herd of cows!" Gerier's statement makes Losan and I crack up; the drinks we'd had making everything seem much funnier than it should have been. We're currently sitting outside one of the voting stations, watching as people file nearer and nearer. _

"_And here comes another one! Looking just about as serious as the rest of them!" Losan laughs again as he points at the two boys heading for the station. They catch sight of us and can't help but stare slightly, though they've probably passed by us before._

"_Going to a funeral, boys?" I call out to them, and we all burst into laughter again as they awkwardly shuffle away. One seems to get up the courage to answer though, because he steps protectively in front of his friend and says, "Why would you think that?"_

"_I've seen happier faces on rocks," I say, hiccuping slightly on the last word and, of course, we dissolve once more into peals of laughter. Because really, it was quite funny. Happier faces on rocks. Rocks don't even have faces! Hilarious!_

_Ah, the beauty of drunken logic._

"_We're going to vote off children to die," the boy says, keeping his voice carefully in check. "And you're expecting us to be happy?"_

"_Well, you could lighten up a bit there, chap," Losan says, chuckling. "After all, you've got a chance to get rid of someone you don't like!"_

_The boy shakes his head. "You think I hate someone enough to want them dead?"_

"_Everyone hates someone," I say. And then we all burst into laughter like it's the funniest thing we've ever heard. Gotta love alcohol; makes everything seem brighter. _

"_Right," the boy says, turning back to his friend, who's glancing nervously at the three of us. Apparently, he thinks the conversation's finished. But as they walk away my drunken mind seems to think it's a good idea to shout after them, "Well, if you ever want to lighten up, boys, you know who to call!"_

_Alright, yes, sometimes the alcohol makes me act a bit...idiotic._

_The nervous boy looks like he just wants to keep walking and not look back, but the other stops, not turning to face us, but just staring off down the street as though he's thinking of something. Then, ever so slowly, he turns back. "Who would I call?"_

_Even with the alcohol in me (or perhaps because of it), this catches me off guard. "What?"_

"_Who would I call? What's your name?"_

_It takes my drunken, addled mind a second to comprehend what he's saying; when I do, I start laughing again. "Anya," I say after the chuckles have subsided, though a giant, most likely goofy-looking grin still remains on my face._

"_Anya what?"_

"_You're really serious about this, aren't you?" I say, managing to keep the laughter out of my voice this time, though I'm sure my amusement is still written all over my face. "Anya Powers."_

_Now it's his turn to be caught off-guard. "Powers? Like...Qwella Powers?"_

_My expression hardens; I've yet to get enough drink in my system that the name of my mother doesn't have an effect on me. "No. Anya. Ah – Nn – Ya. Got it?"_

_He stares at me for a moment, then nods. "Yeah, I got it."_

It tends to be nights like those that, if the drink doesn't already do it for me, I try to forget. Not that I mind my mother being mentioned after all. I don't care if people are always comparing me to her. I think I've made it pretty obvious that my lifestyle is going to be _very_ different from hers. Especially since I'm still living. But I don't care. Really, I don't.

Jeez, where's a drink when you need one?

Luckily, the escort chooses this moment to jump onto the stage and drag me out of my thoughts. Seriously, if you don't have the option of being distracted by alcohol, then our escort, with her purple skin, bizarre, yellow hair and revoltingly colored shoes is definitely the next best choice. Her voice is so shrill, you can't possibly think with it blabbing away. Unfortunately, this also means that my sensitive ears have to bear the brunt of the awful noise, and I find myself wincing while the teens nearby give me weird looks. Suddenly, I remember the boy from before and look towards him, but he's turned back towards the stage, firmly facing away from me. What's up with him? It couldn't be embarrassment over that night; _I'm_ not the slightest bit embarrassed, and I was the one doing most of the talking (and the laughing). So what...?

And then, despite the alcohol I've already had and the hangover from the night before, it clicks, just as the escort brings out the slip of paper that contains the name of the girl who got the most votes to go into the Games. Surprisingly, my first thought is, _Damn, we shouldn't have bet on that crazy girl. Should have placed money on—_

"Anya Powers, the lucky girl with the most votes in the district!"

I had a split second head-start on knowing what has coming (or at least, guessing), but somehow having the escort say it out loud makes it seem more...final, somehow. Everyone turns to stare at me, as though it was some sort of rehearsed display they'd all been waiting to do, and I just stand there, looking vaguely surprised, trying to figure out how I'm feeling about this. Eventually, though, my brain registers that I should probably start walking, and I begin to make my way to the stage, but I feel almost disconnected for the scene as I search my mind frantically for...what, exactly? The barrage of emotions most tributes seem to get when their names are called? Like fear at being sent to my death? Or anger at the fact that everyone voted me in?

Now, the Games may like to try and change people, twist their personalities, but the first thing I'm resolving to do is _not_ let that happen to me. _So don't turn into some complicated, depressed tribute with a whirling mass of feelings, _I tell myself as I climb the stage, being careful not to fall over or trip. _Just keep it simple, Anya. Deal with feeling only one thing at a time._

Yes, I do like simple. And despite the fact that some part of my brain is bursting into tears while another part is raging around in anger, I allow myself to just _relax_. Try and accept my fate and not make a big show of it. After all, that is what the Capitol wants this year; force people to vote on kids, thereby making said voted child hate the rest of the district. Yeah, well, I already take people and their feelings towards me with a grain of salt. So good luck making _me_ cry, Mr. All-Powerful President Finn. The only possible way that could ever be achieved would be if someone officially decided to destroy all of the alcohol in District 8.

Wait, do they allow even liquor in the arena? Oh _dear_...

As this newfound problem rises up, I hardly pay any attention to the escort, who goes on and on about what an honor it is to be reaped for the Quell. In fact, I don't really register anything going on outside of my frantic thoughts until my stomach churns unpleasantly. Must be my body's reaction to the shock of being reaped. Or the combination of drinking while on a hangover. But whatever it is, I'm starting to feel sick. Not sick like having a sick mind; sick like nauseous. Extremely nauseous. Like about-to-vomit nauseous.

"So, Anya, why do you think everyone decided to vote you in?" the escort asks, acting like it's an honor, and I must have done something _really_ special to win people's votes.

"Stick around for a minute and you'll see," I mutter. The escort looks at me in confusion, and there's a split second where I wonder if I'm really going to do what I think I'm going to do. I mean, can you _do_ that at a reaping? Then again, how exactly would they punish me? Hello, sentenced to death by being forced into an arena with no alcohol here (oh yeah, and the fact that there's twenty-three other tributes in there trying to kill me). Not like there's anything worse out there. Besides holding it back would be terribly unpleasant. Plus the escort's face might be pretty funny to watch.

"Y-You...You..." The escort stares down in horror as I straighten up from my position bent doubled. _"EWWW!"_

With that high-pitched shriek echoing around the square, I try to resist the urge to either stuff my fingers in my ears or punch the escort in the face. "Look on the bright side," I say, trying to sound upbeat despite my still-churning stomach and the burning sensation that now coats my throat. "I think it really improves the color of your shoes."

Whether she heard me or not is impossible to tell, as all she does is just keep shrieking. But the audience is laughing; at least, Gerier and Losan are, a bit too loudly, but hey, it makes me feel better. My eyes find them in the crowd, and they both wink, still chuckling to themselves while a few other members of District 8 seem to be holding back smiles as well. And then there are those that just look disgusted; well, tough. This is what they wanted, after all; you vote in Anya Powers, you get _all_ of Anya Powers. Some tributes have a whole bunch of roiling emotions rising in them when they're reaped; I just have, well, the sick mess that the escort is currently shrieking about while a few Peacekeepers arrive with some cleaning supplies. They glare at me, but I guess they can't really do much more than that; besides, I'm going into the Hunger Games. What more of a punishment could I need?

_So I am scared, then?_ I allow myself a few moments to think while the escort tidies up. Of the arena? Well, who wouldn't be? But surprisingly, my biggest worry when I think about the Games is the significant lack of alcohol that's present. That's not going to be fun._ Wow, Anya. All the horrors you've seen on TV, and you're worried about that? Wow._

It does seem slightly odd, but I just can't find it in myself to get worried about it. Living on the streets, you really don't worry about tomorrow; when you're drinking, you're _especially_ not worrying about tomorrow. So I'll deal with things as they come, I guess. I can win these Games; Anya-style. Which hopefully won't involve any more stumbling around and throwing up like a drunken idiot. Because so far, that seems to be all there is to Anya-style.

"Alright," the escort says, trying to keep the shudder out of her voice as the Peacekeepers leave, her shoes returned to their normal, just-as-ugly selves (I don't know how they managed to clean it up so fast. Capitol technology, I guess). "Well, let's move on, shall we?" She hurriedly strides away from me and grabs the second envelope containing the name of the "lucky" boy who got the most votes. "Do we have a...Damian Blackwater?"

I smile at that, though considering I was already laughing from the escort's reaction to my little "demonstration," there isn't really much of a difference to begin with. _We guess right._ Well, at least the crew should get some money out of that bet. Then we can go all-out tonight, or maybe just start drinking right after the reaping...

Oh, right; not going to be there, taking the train to my doom and all that. There goes _my_ happy mood.

But apparently not someone else's. Honestly, I think it should be a crime for people to be overly joyful when I'm standing here contemplating a bleak, no-alcohol future. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop whoever it is in the crowd from letting out a loud laugh. The crowd turns, but they're less coordinated than they were before; I guess when my name was called, they knew _exactly_ who to look for. Or maybe it was just the smell that tipped them off. But whatever the case, it seems like almost no one could previously identify the infamous Damian Blackwater before he decided to make his way to the stage. Idiot; if none of the citizens in Eight could tell who I was, _I_ certainly wouldn't have answered the escort. Then again, I guess _somebody _had to know him; we all have to sign in before the ceremony. Peacekeepers probably would have been able to pick him out.

Suddenly, something small, furry and apparently very friendly streaks up the stage and onto the thief's foot, making the escort shriek and step into a pile of my little present to her that the Peacekeepers must have missed. But even that seems like a miniscule problem compared to this new development. "Rodent!" she screams. "Someone do something!"

_If she keeps up using that shrill voice, soon she'll be attracting bats instead of rats,_ I think, wincing again at her god-awful tone. Still, the show is well worth the crappy audio; the escort keeps shrieking while Damian and the Peacekeeper charged with the extermination of this new intrusion duke it out on the stage. Man, I wish I had some popcorn; this reaping is more entertaining than any I've ever had to sit through before. We haven't even hit the arena yet, and we've already supplied the Panem viewers with a mysterious young thief, a cute, cuddly animal, some entertaining action sequences, and hilarious, riveting comedic relief (not to be immodest or anything). Honestly, what more could you ask for in a television series? I hope President Finn and Head Gamemaker Snow are happy with their little Quarter Quell, because if all of the other districts are like this...Well, the Capitol will be in for a _very_ interesting Games.

Unfortunately, Damian's little squabble with the Peacekeeper doesn't last, and soon he calls in reinforcements, one of them kicking the animal off of the stage as they go, leaving me to watch as they drag my district partner away, still shouting angrily at the law enforcers. Two approach me as well, seemingly with the intent of taking me away too, and I ask casually, "What, no anthem? Don't I get to shake my partner's hand as a semblance of peace before we're sent to kill each other?"

"We think you've had enough excitement for one day," the taller of the pair says, and I shrug. But the idea of just leaving the audience without some sort of big finale just won't do, so I begin to sing Panem's anthem myself, in the loudest, most drunken-sounding voice I can manage; which, when you consider all of my prior experiences, is a pretty darn good imitation, only slightly aided by the drink I had earlier this morning. They frown and reach out to escort me to the Justice Building, but before they can grab hold I jump off of the stage, landing right near the rodent that was kicked off the stage. Out of curiosity, I glance down amidst my singing to see if I can spot what I'm sure is now a very dead ferret, but my eyes don't find it. Instead, I feel something soft and furry scamper up my leg, hidden from sight by the folds of my greying pant legs.

Now, living in the derelict alleyways as we do, I'm quite used to seeing rats and even finding the occasional one attempting to make a home in my coat. Still, my thoughts are somewhere along the lines of _Holy crap_ as the little animal curls itself around my knee. I freeze, mid-song, and the Peacekeepers take advantage of my pause to come up behind me and roughly grab my arms.

"Ready to go?" one asks in a tone that clearly means it's not a question. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the ferret/squirrel thing though, as they make no references to it.

"But I'm not finished yet," I protest innocently, but he just snorts and they begin to lead me off. I do manage to start again, though, and I finish the anthem before we've completely left the square. I can't resist throwing out one last "Goodnight District 8!" to the citizens before the doors of the Justice Building slam shut behind me.

_Honestly, the Peacekeepers can hold their guns with such delicate caring that it borders on creepy, yet they can't be a little gentler in this case?_ I think as they shove me roughly into the room allotted for my goodbyes. Then again, I _did_ make them clean vomit off of the escort's shoes. But, come on, that was funny! At the very least, it was more entertaining than District 8's usual reapings. Seriously, these guys need to learn to laugh a little more. Maybe someone should get them drunk (actually, there was one occasion a while ago when one of the other homeless people _did_ try to slip them a few drinks. Yeah, it didn't really turn out well for him).

The lump on my knee moves slightly and I make an odd noise between a laugh and a cough in surprise, earning myself a strange look from the Peacekeeper guarding the door. I couldn't really care less about the animal currently wrapped around my leg, but one way or another he's going to have to find a new spot to rest; not only are his sharp little claws digging into my knee, but the fur is tickling me and I've _never_ liked being tickled.

Eyeing my guard one last time, who's still staring at me, I glance down at my shoes and make a little "Oh!" of surprise before shaking my head and bending down in the act of tying my shoes, facing away from him. Unfortunately, my shoes, like the rest of my wardrobe, are falling apart and barely have soles, let alone laces, so I still look ridiculous, but eh, I'm used to getting weird looks. A big reason why we drink: so we can blame everything on the alcohol.

The Peacekeeper looks at me in contempt, the expression on his face clearly conveying the fact that he thinks I'm nuts, but after I remain on the ground for a good while attempting to tie the non-existent laces together, he shakes his own head and goes back to staring at the opposite wall, refusing to look at me as though my insanity might be hazardous to his health. Any other time this might have bothered me, but focusing his attention elsewhere is exactly what I needed as my hands move from my feet to my knees, trying to push the lump down and out of my pant leg. What follows are a few mumbled curses from yours truly, as the animal rakes his little claws all the way down my shin; the little pest just does _not_ want to come quietly. Finally I give up and reach my arm under the material of my pants, wrapping a hand around the body of the rodent and yanking it off with a triumphant "Hah!"

"Something funny?"

I turn back to the Peacekeeper, subconsciously shoving the ferret into my pocket before he can notice, hearing a little squeak of protest. The man's eye raises further, and I quickly make an attempt at imitating the sound to detract the attention. "No. Why do you ask?"

"You just laughed."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You...Never mind."

I throw the Peacekeeper the same look he gave me earlier, implying that I think he's just as crazy as he thought of me. He goes back once more to staring at the wall, and I start to open my pocket to deal with the animal when the door bangs open. I whirl around, shoving the head of the animal back into my pocket as it attempts to take a peek at this new disturbance, which of course is none other than the crew.

Both Gerier and Losan are still chuckling from my little 'exposition' during the ceremony; as for Merie, arms outstretched somewhat as if to offer me a hug, but then glances at the other two men to see their reactions and stops. Good thing, too; people who try to offer me any sort of 'comforting' gesture tend to wind up with their heads bitten off. I'm not exactly a fan of sympathy.

"Well, you certainly made a name for yourself," Gerier says, calming himself down, except the odd snicker or two. "At least the sponsors'll take notice."

"Excellent. You know, I was wondering, do you think they're allowed to send me alcohol in the arena?"

Losan laughs. "Maybe, if you spin it to make it look like it's for 'medicinal purposes.'"

"Good plan," I say, smiling. Then I clap my hands together. "Well, will you look at that? Just been reaped and I _already_ have an arena strategy. I think I'm set."

"Y-You're not...worried?"

The three of us turn to stare at Merie, who's staring at me with eyes so wide I try and resist the urge to use them as makeshift dinner plates. And it's not like she'd be all that undeserving of having a bodily organ turned into a matching part of a china set. _Am I scared?_ Who the hell asks a question like that when someone's just been reaped? No, of _course_ I'm not worried about being sent into a giant deathtrap filled to the brim with bloodthirsty mutts, equally bloodthirsty Careers, and a handful of other kids who're all going to want me dead. And let's not forget about the lack of food, water, or, more importantly, alcohol. Yeah, that doesn't worry me at _all_.

Jeez, Gerier and Losan may be old and slightly crazy, but at least _they_ have the common sense to joke around and lighten the mood during what may be my last moments in District 8.

"Of course not," I say casually. "After all, everyone must have voted me in for a reason. Obviously they think I can win this thing."

"Definitely," says Losan with a grin. "Because, you know, it couldn't _possibly_ be the fact that they consider us to be nothing more than trash on the streets."

"You gotta remember," I answer back, "One man's trash is another man's treasure."

"So just try not to come home in a box," Gerier says with a wink as the Peacekeepers come to escort the group out. "I'd hate for you to wind up as a _buried_ treasure."

I can't help it; despite what I'm sure is supposed to be the sober mood the Games inflict upon the tributes and their families, I burst out laughing. Seems like a better way to pass the time then sobbing our eyes out, recounting all our fond memories and feelings for each other.

Besides, none of us are _ever_ sober anyways. No use changing that now.

The shouts of our group slowly quieten until the room is filled once more with silence, bringing with it the mixed up bundle of emotions I was trying to push away. Throwing some sort of moody tantrum won't do me any good now; I just have to figure out how to distract myself. Admittedly, without a drink, it's a bit tougher to do. Well, I just have to make do with what I have. Turning to the Peacekeeper who stands by the door, I'm surprised that he hasn't moved to either tell me where to go (preferably without swearing) or just come and roughly escort me to the train. Does this mean I have more visitors? Nah, most likely Damian's just taking his time saying long, depressing goodbyes to his friends. Though what acquaintances a thief could possibly have I can't guess at. Alright, well, if I've got time to spare, than I might as well have some fun with these guys.

"So, when are we going?" I say loudly, in the obnoxious tone that usually only presents itself when I'm drunk or acting like it. "I've got a tight schedule to keep, you know! If I'm going to get killed in the arena I don't want to spend my last week of peace waiting for you people to keep up! When we get to the Capitol, I want you to know that I will most _certainly_ be filing a complaint on the lack of speed our law enforcers seem to have. Come on now! Let's g—"

"Anya?"

Definition of awkward: Your father, whose existence you haven't acknowledged for more than four years, slipping into the room unnoticed with the intention of saying what might be your final goodbye, only to find you yelling drunkenly at a Peacekeeper, an act which he most likely believes to be real.

Yeah; _awkward._

I tense and slowly turn my attention away from the Peacekeeper to the owner of the voice that just spoke, praying that I misheard and my guess of the identity of this person is wrong. And, for the second time today, as I take in the small, meek figure, the glasses, the plain, unassuming clothes, I realize that even though I wished I was wrong—I wasn't.

Wonderful; Dad's here. Now it's _really_ a party.

For the majority of the first minute, the two of us just stand and stare at each other, both lacking the ability to speak; him because he never knows what to say on occasions like this, me because, well, my brain seems to have frozen over in shock. Then, as expected, the silence grows too much for him to bear he nervously speaks up. "I wouldn't have even recognized you if they hadn't called your name. What happened to your hair?"

My hand rises unconsciously to the mess of knots that currently reside on my head. He's not referring to the tangles though; I never really cared all that much for my looks even when I lived back at home—probably would have hacked the annoying curls off if my mother had let me. No, he's most likely wondering about the color; blonde hair does not just suddenly go black without any help. Shortly after I'd left, I wandered across a vat of black dye that had been tossed to the curb outside of one of the district's factories. I'd figured that changing my appearance would be a good way to not be recognized anymore (plus, I thought it would look cool), so I'd doused my hair in the stuff. And after analyzing myself and deciding that it was an improvement, I just kept up the routine whenever a few blonde strands started to show. One perk of living in District 8: the world never seems to run out of dye.

However, I feel as though my reasoning would be somewhat lost on Dad and his mild, non-rebelling attitude, so I settle for a simpler response that's much more my style anyways. "What happened to yours?"

He blushes at the mention of his own mop of brown hair, which has definitely receded since the last time I saw him. Mind you, that was quite a few years ago. People change; although it's clear that the opposite personalities Dad and I had still stand. Him on one side—meek, calm, and dull—and me on the other—loud, sarcastic, and like a nice breath of fresh air amidst the boring throng of Eight's other citizens.

We were just so different that we never really knew what to do with each other; unlike Mom and me, who got along on an uncomfortable road of indifference/irritation for reasons most people say stemming from our way-too-similar personalities. Say that to my face and I'd most likely punch your lights out, but sometimes I could see where they were coming from; if anyone dared try to compare Qwella Powers to anyone, she probably would have punched them as well.

"You'll do fine," Dad says suddenly, seeming to be thinking along the same lines. "You're a lot like her; it should help in the Games."

See, _that's_ exactly what I hate hearing. The only thing worse than hearing how much like Mom I am is hearing how much I _should _be like Mom. _Oh look, it's Qwella Powers' daughter. What is she doing with her life? Shouldn't she be trying to help people like her mother? _Listening to comments like that makes me sicker than drinking while on a hangover.

I. Am. Anya. Powers. Not Qwella Powers. People really need to start getting that idea through their thick skulls or I'll start smashing it in.

"Well, I hope I don't," I say with an edge in my voice that's usually never present (Why is the alcohol never around when I want it most? Then again, I want it pretty much all the time...). "Do you really want me to end up just like her? Maybe get us a double grave or something?"

He flinches, as though my words literally punched him in the chest. More than four years, and he still can't get over her death. Well, if he can't handle talking about it, then he shouldn't bring her up at all. Every time people start mentioning how wonderful she is, I can't help but correct their grammar; she _was_ amazing. She _used_ to be a great soldier during the Dark Days, in the first rebellion of the districts against the Capitol. And after the Capitol took over again and bombed Thirteen, she decided to be a good little citizen and settle down, have a family. But when a group of people grew unhappy after twenty straight years of Hunger Games with no signs of them letting up, she signed up with a bunch of others to try and start a rebellion. Their plan? Form a mob in the town square and shout angrily at the Peacekeepers while waving around whatever weapons that were common to the district (i.e. needles and small pairs of scissors. _Real_ intimidating).

Well, the guns came out and the Peacekeepers ended _that_ little rebellion pretty quickly. The district was in complete lock-down for a few days, and when we were finally allowed out of our homes, we found a big pile of bodies dumped unceremoniously by the graveyard. I remember waiting at home while Dad went out to try and help identify the bodies, though he was really only looking for one person. And when he came back with the news, tears in his eyes, I felt...nothing. Not like the depressed, hollowed-out feeling people sometimes get. Just...nothing. A burning sense of apathy. Mom and I, we were never close.

A few weeks later I realized that I needed to find an escape. Every day was exactly the same: wake up, go to school, learn lessons containing information about becoming a textile worker which I never bothered to even look at, get scolded by the teachers for leaving yet _another_ piece of homework unmarked and untouched, go home with new work, put it off, eat dinner, go to bed. Always the same. Every. Single. Day. And Dad didn't seem to want to change our comfortable, dull little lives anytime soon.

So, I left. Figured I could have a more interesting life on the streets than cooped up in a little gray house surrounded by similar little gray houses with their ordinary occupants leading ordinary lives. It wasn't running away; I don't really _do_ running. Instead, I told Dad point-blank that the typical District 8 life wasn't for me, and just walked out the door. Surprisingly, he didn't say anything to stop me. Maybe he thought I'd come back. Or was in shock. Or just didn't know what to say.

And yes, I admit, saying I left home because I was bored sounds pretty bad. But hey, I'd say it wasn't the stupidest decision I ever made. Not that I've made any stupid decisions.

Anyways, the point is, Anya Powers equals very much alive, Qwella Powers equals the exact opposite. So having people say they wished I would have turned out more like my mother tended to make them get on my bad side. And sure, maybe they weren't referring to the fact that she was dead; probably the fact that she was a brave, independent woman who fought for the lives and rights of those around her. Saying I should have ended up like that annoys me nearly just as much.

"I'm sorry." I glance back at Dad, still glaring slightly. Back when Mom was still alive, she had this certain way of making her stormy gray eyes seem to pierce right into your body, making the bravest of men quake in their boots. And though my eyes match the colour of hers, I've never been able to master that glare. Then again, most of the time attempting to even just focus my gaze is too hard for me to try and bother with.

Great, now I'm _trying_ to act like Mom.

_Focus Anya,_ I scold myself. _Don't compare yourself to her. You don't care about what she did and how everyone admired her for it. You don't care that people wish you were the same instead of being something they consider to be below the scum on their boots. You. Don't. Care._

Yeah, I _really_ need that drink I was talking about. Or two. Or ten.

"Time's up."

For the first time in my life, I'm glad to see a Peacekeeper. This supposed 'three minutes' contained enough heavy silences and awkward chatter to last at least four lifetimes. But just when I get my hopes up, Dad steps away from the man's outstretched arm. "Wait." He quickly closes the distance between us and holds out his hand. "I just need to give you this."

Of course, he had to bring a token. And of course, it had to be Mom's old necklace. Yes, when I was little I thought it was pretty awesome, for a piece of jewellery: a silver circle, outlined by that hat/weed thing Romans used to wear, what was it called? A laurel wreath. And inside the circle is a fist, punching upwards and looking like nothing can stand in its way.

It's cool. And as tokens go, it's not awful or sappy or anything else that makes me want to throw up on our escort again. But still, my answer is, "I don't want it." Harsh, yes. But I can't take it; it's the principle of things. I can't go around saying I don't care about my mother and don't want to be like her and then turn around and start wearing her stuff. Don't want to be a hypocrite, now, do I?

Dad's expression droops into one of hurt, but he knows not to argue further. For one, arguing isn't really Dad's 'thing.' He's too meek for that. But he also knows that urging me to take it won't get him anywhere. People say I'm stubborn as a mule. I prefer to think of it as I'm determined as the sterile offspring of a female horse and a male donkey. Doesn't that sound nicer?

The Peacekeeper steps forward, clearly deciding my father's pushed the goodbye time-limit to the max, but before he can escort him out, Dad pulls me into his arms, giving me an awkward but genuine hug. "Good luck, Anya," he whispers, before allowing himself to be pulled out of the room. Meanwhile, I'm completely paralyzed; as I've said, expressions of sympathy are a big no-no with me. Normally, my reaction would be some sort of sarcastic remark, or just punching the sympathizer. But, for some reason, my brain just shuts down, and I can't think of anything to say or do; emotions whirling around inside me so quickly I can't even tell what they are. In fact, I don't even register anything going on around me until the Peacekeeper by the door comes over and says snobbishly, "It's time to go. I thought you were on a _tight schedule._"

"Oh, shut up," I snap, heading out the door before he can attempt to 'escort' me. Okay, yes; not the best comeback I've ever said. But give me a break; after waking up with a gigantic hangover, drinking despite that, getting voted to go to my death, throwing up on live TV and talking with the father I hadn't spoken to since I was 13, I think I deserve some leniency.

I'm still deep in thought over the encounter as I'm ushered outside to the station, where the sleek, gleaming Capitol train is stopped. As expected, all sorts of reporters and photographers wait for us, wanting to be the first to get the exclusive scoop on this year's tributes. I notice that they all keep a safe distance from me though, just in case I get the urge to vomit again. I smirk at that and thrust my hands into the pockets of my ragged, torn coat, actually excited to get on the train just so I can check out what sort of alcohol they had on it. I've heard that these Capitol people really knew how to live; hopefully that includes knowledge on how best to get drunk too. With all the surprises and thinking and remembering I did today, I'm quite ready to blast the thoughts away with a nice, long, very overdue drink.

But apparently, the surprises aren't over yet; as my hand fingers the shredded material of the pocket that doesn't contain Damian's little friend (I'll have to figure out how to get it back to him at some point), it brushes against something cool and metallic and most definitely _not_ a normal part of my coat. Frowning, I grasp hold of what feels like a chain and pull it out.

_That sneaky rat,_ I think to myself, taking in the familiar necklace. He must have slipped it into my pocket when we hugged. Huh. Who would have thought that meek, mild Dad was capable of defying my demand that he keep the token? Maybe he's more like me than I thought. Looks like he's got some Anya-style in him after all.

_Anya-style_. The phrase makes me want to laugh; it just seems pretty absurd. Yeah, Anya-style—drinking, making sarcastic remarks, and generally acting like an idiot. That's _totally_ going to win me the Games. But still, the words stick in my head. Obviously, no matter how drunk, hungover or overall irritated I am, I'm not going down without a fight. And if I do manage to win the Games, I won't do it like my mom would, or my dad, or any previous Hunger Games victor. I'll do it like I would.

Anya-style.


	10. District Nine: Knowledge is Power

**So are you guys excited or what? We're almost to the Capitol...and believe me...it's going to be different.**

**Still working on getting my substitute computer to allow me to do reviews. So might be a little bit.**

**Edit: Deform mentioned in Juniper's section is basically the slums.**

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**Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo **

**"Alaric Pakalin" of District 9**

**By booksandmusic97**

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_"The only disability in life is a bad attitude."  
_— Scott Hamilton

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**booksandmusic97's A/N: **

**I'm so excited to be part of this second 24 authors project! While Alaric is very different than Elia was, I gave them some similarities. One similarity is that I tried to be as unique as possible in creating them. I didn't want the stereotypical orphan, weak kid, strong kid, or genius. Another is the fact that they both come from a big family and have a strong bond with a little sister. I love writing the big-sibling-little-sister bond, because I have an older sister and a little sister and an older brother and a little brother myself. A third and final similarity, is that I took the liberty of sort of inventing a District and family culture. I picture Alaric's family as being of sort of a Turkish-German- Spanish or –Italian decent. While most part of those cultures such as language and true identity of heritage will have died out, some remnants of the languages such as terms of endearment and words for "mother," or "father," and rites of passage type customs may have lived on- just lost their true cultural significance.**

**Words used in this chapter:**

**_Atta - _What Alaric calls his father. It's Latin, which was the language mainly spoken in the Roman Empire.**

**_Valide - _What Alaric calls his mother; Turkish**

**_Florecita - _His name for his little sister, "little flower", Spanish**

**_Denovo - _Alaric's second surname. Latin for "mutation" since D9 is the muttations District.**

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In the Districts of Panem, free will is almost entirely a myth. It is by no one's _free will _that the Hunger Games are hosted each year. No one starves to death by their own free will. It isn't anyone's free will to be born into the dwindling upper class, or born into poverty. That's just the way it is.

Being born into District 9's small upper class of bioengineers and their families, one would think that I'd have extra perks. Immunity at the annual reaping perhaps; or maybe summer vacations to some luxury resort in the Capitol. Yeah, right. Upper class doesn't mean Capitolite. My twelve siblings and I are in danger at the reaping just like everyone else- though, I will admit not as much due to our never taking tesserae. This year is different, though. So different. It doesn't matter what class someone was born into, or how many times their name is in the reaping bowl. This is the twenty-fifth Hunger Games, the first Quarter Quell. The tributes were voted on this year. Nobody is safe.

I lie awake in bed on the morning of the reaping and stare at the ceiling. I like mornings in an odd sense. Without my hearing aids in, the silence is interrupted only by the occasionally soft banging noise of my younger siblings tumbling down the hallways. I used to think of my hearing loss as a disability, but it didn't take long for me to find something good about it. If things are getting too loud or too hectic, I just pull out my hearing aids and check out of the world for a while. I can't imagine living in a world that I couldn't check out of as I wished. Surprisingly, I _don't _envy those with perfect hearing, considering I used to be one of them.

Up until I was thirteen, I had perfect hearing. Some of my siblings and I were having lunch with our father at the lab he worked at when a fired employee, Gavin Garreau, set off a homemade bomb in the lab. Garreau intended for the bomb to kill my father, my siblings and I, but had only injured us and killed one of Atta's assistants. I lost most of my hearing in my left ear, lost only a marginal amount of my hearing in my right ear, and my shin was shattered. Atta's influence in the Capitol was able to get me flown via hovercraft to the Capitol three times for corrective surgeries, and the most up-to-date hearing aids that there are, but not much else.

Out of my twelve siblings, five were also injured in the bombing; Benan, my older brother, and my older sisters Elke, Gaetana, and Aylin, and my younger sister Marta. The five of them only sustained minor injuries such as broken bones, temporary hearing loss, and concussions. Benan and I are two of only four boys in the family, and being the only two that were still children at the time of the bombing, Ben and I acted like it wasn't as bad as it really was. We both felt like we had to be strong for our family, especially since Atta and Valide were beating themselves up about it.

_It could be worse, _I tell myself, like I do every day. _You could have died, Alaric. Better deaf than dead._

I hear a repetitive banging noise and assume that it's my younger siblings tumbling in the hallway, so I pay it no mind and close my eyes with the intent to fall back asleep. The reaping isn't until eleven, and it's only seven. It isn't until my bedroom door swings open and the light from the hallway fills my room that I remember what _else _today is.

I slowly open my eyes and look towards the door to see Azura glaring at me and rapidly moving her mouth. I hear nothing but a loud rumbling noise and hold up my hand and tell her to wait. She rolls her eyes and waits as I lean over to my bedside table and grab my hearing aids so I can put then in and adjust them.

"I don't know why you take those off to sleep, Gabe," Azura says, calling me by a diminutive form of my first first name. "Atta wants you keep them in at all times, they're designed for that."

I roll my eyes and my sister and adjust the volume on the hearing aids before saying, "I get enough nagging from Valide. I don't need it from my little sister, too."

"By forty-five seconds!" Azura snaps back. Azzie gets pissy when people refer to her as my 'little sister.'

Though we're twins, the only similarities are our birthdays and our DNA. Azura is a pint-sized girl with straight, white blonde hair and blue-green eyes that always seem to look accusingly curious- like the way a mother looks at her child when she asked them questions that she already knows the answers to. The complete opposite of Azura, I'm a fairly tall guy with mousy brown hair and grey eyes. Our personalities are nothing alike either. While I try not to glorify myself, I do believe that my character traits are better than hers. Azura is a cold, selfish, and spiteful person who doesn't care about anybody but herself and _maybe _her equally cold-hearted friends. I try to be as kind and caring to people as I can- within reason. I'll admit that I'll be an ass to anybody that rubs me the wrong way, but that's reasonable.

Azura clears her throat and folds her arms expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what? I didn't hear a single thing you said when you came barging in here earlier."

"I asked you if you've forgotten what today is," she gripes. "Other than the reaping."

"Up until you reminded me, yes, I did forget about my meeting with…_Steffi._"

Azura laughs and says, "Hurry up and get dressed. Your fiancée is already downstairs waiting."

With that, she prances out of the room, leaving me to my business. I groan in displeasure at the thought of spending the morning with Steffi Cardena. My father works for the Bardem-Cardena Lab, the largest and most prestigious lab in District 9; Atta is actually one of the men in charge- one of his duties is firing, hiring, and taking care of paychecks. Steffi's father, Wilhelm Cardena, is one of the heads of the Lab as well as a former classmate of my father. He and my father made an arranged marriage deal when Steffi and I were born. If both of us weren't married or engaged by the age of sixteen and a half years, we would have no choice but to marry each other. In District 9, marriage at a young age isn't uncommon. Most girls are married for the first time at around fifteen, and boys eighteen, but it's also acceptable to wait until the early twenties. It's only considered taboo to be over twenty-five and unmarried.

Steffi _was _engaged for a short while to the son of a baker and a shoemaker's daughter, but that fell through about sixteen months ago and _voila! _the deal came into play. For the past year and four months, my parents and Steffi's parents have been badgering us to complete the wedding plans, something I'd rather not be worrying about.

Reluctantly, I slip out of bed and throw on the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday and a button down shirt than I don't even bother to button. I'll just have to change my clothes for the reaping later, so why bother? The temptation to take out my hearing aids so I can't hear Steffi's rambling is nagging, but I resist and brush my hair so it looks presentable, then go downstairs.

"Oh! _There _he is," my mother says apologetically. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Steffi."

My forced-fiancée is beautiful, I won't deny that, but her honey-blonde hair and crystal blue eyes aren't enough to make me happy about committing the rest of my life to her. Besides, I don't think I think I have business getting married at my age. To be completely honest, I planned in marrying in my twenties, if at all. Having a romantic relationship with a girl has never been my top priority, and if I _am _to be in one now, it'd rather it be with-

"Alaric are your hearing thingies in? You aren't responding to a word I say," says Steffi in her squeakily high-pitched voice. It kind of reminds me of a mouse.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Spaced out, would you mind repeating that?"

She smiles, revealing her blue braces. I'm usually good at reading people, but Steffi is difficult to decode. I can't tell if she's as reluctant about the engagement as I am, or if she is genuinely eager to get married.

"What do you think of purple and lime green as the wedding colors?"

_Ugh, _I shudder. _The 'W' word. _"As long as the colors go well together, I don't see why that would be a problem."

Steffi squeals in excitement and jots something down in her notebook as I stare at the table.

For twenty minutes, I just sit there with my arms folded over my chest as Steffi rearranges color swatches, pictures of flowers and squares of dress material on the dining table and writes and erases notes in her notebook. I swallow my dread as I see the envelopes, sticky notes, and transparent neon-colored page markers sticking out of it. The spirals are barely holding together the notebook with the decorative front cover reading: The Pakalin-Cardena Wedding Notebook.

_Oh damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn._

It's silent in my family's dining room until Steffi abruptly drops her pencil and stares at me angrily. "I'm not thrilled about this either, Alaric, but you can at least not act like it's the end of the world, or that I'm the worst possible option."

"That's not what I'm-"

"Yes, it is. At least it's _me _and not some Capitol hoe." Steffi sighs and chews on the eraser of her pencil. "Is marrying me really that horrible to you, Rick?"

I wince at the nickname, but don't bother her about it and just answer her question. "Yes, it _is _that horrible. It's forced, it's too rushed, and frankly, we grew up together. I see you as nothing more than the girl I sat next to in math class and my father's boss's kid. I'm sorry about that, Steffi. You're really nice and you're one of the most beautiful people I've ever met, but-"

"Oh thank goodness." She lays her head down on the table and begins chuckling, but her chuckles soon erupt into hysterical laughter. She pushes her notebook to the side and I hear a _thump! _as she falls to the floor in her fit of laughter. Her mirthful screams turn into eagle-like screeches, and the screeches turn into desperate gasps for air.

"Oxygen, oxygen!" she wheezes, still caught in her laughter. When she finally catches her breath, she continues to lie there on the floor and stare at the ceiling, her blonde hair in a mess around her.

_Women confuse me. Immensely._

The silence in the dining room is broken again by Steffi's voice. "My ex-fiancée and I have recently become reacquainted and well…what's in the past is in the past. We'd like to move forward with our lives…together."

"So…" I say slowly. "You're calling off the engagement?

She shakes her head, mane of blonde hair flying around her and says, "Our parents wouldn't be pleased if we called off the engagement for no reason that satisfies them. So we'll get married, you and I. But please think of it more as a civil union between two friends than a lifetime partnership. I have a way of getting out of this little marriage of ours."

"Divorce," I say slowly. "Are you sure? I mean, you know what happens to a divorced woman in District 9."

Steffi smirks and says, "I have my soon-to-be-ex-ex-fiancée. Don't tell me you're starting to actually _care _for me."

My lips form a 'wow,' but no sound comes out. I sit in awe of Steffi's cleverness. Never, in all the years that I've known her, did I ever think that she would be capable of such brilliance. Steffi blinks her crystal blue eyes at me and gathers her things to go. She leaves with no parting words, only a mischievous smile.

Not long after Steffi's departure, I glance at the clock on the wall. I swear when I see that it reads ten fifteen. Without bothering to make sure that the dining room is clean, I rush upstairs to change into my reaping clothes. By 'reaping clothes' I mean I find a nicer pair of pants, and button up my white shirt.

I wanted to take a shower, but three of the other six eligible Pakalin Denovo kids are waiting in line, so that idea is quickly thrown out the window. There's nothing else to do but to wait for my sisters to finish their hair and makeup, so I head downstairs to wait, only to be tackled by a little giggly ball of energy.

"I sorry big brudder, I sorry!"

I chuckle and bend down to lift the hyper little girl into my arms. "Easy now, Chiara,"

"Chiara caazy big brudder, I caazy!" Chiara waves her arms and shakes her head around to demonstrate how "caazy" she is. I smile and spit the red curls out of my mouth once she settles down. Chiara is my three year old sister, and hands down one of my favorite siblings. Coming from a large and busy family, Atta and Valide often leave our younger siblings to us older children, and since there are only a few of us _willing _to do it- Benan, Elke, Marta and myself- it wasn't hard for me to grow very attached to Chiara.

"Alaric wan' play hide-n-seek?"

I frown and give Chiara a hug as I turn around and walk to the foyer with her. "After the reaping, okay florecita?"

"But I wan' play now," she whines. "Please Alaric?"

Azura comes down the stairs in her black floral print dress and sneers, "He can't, stupid. He might get reaped."

"You might too," I shoot back.

"What's raped?" asks Chiara.

Azura bursts into laughter and I quickly explain to Chiara that it's _reaped _not _raped_, taking extra care to stress the long 'e' sound in 'reaped.' The little girl gets it soon enough, but I will admit that it was pretty funny to hear her struggle through it for a while. My mother runs down the stairs and shouts at Azura and I, telling us that we'll be late for the reaping if we don't hurry up. I lift Chiara up so she can sit on my shoulders, and Azura leads the way out of the house. I almost ask my mother if Atta will be attending the reaping, but I know that he won't be. It isn't safe for him to leave the house or the lab. It isn't safe for any of us really, but only our father is paranoid about it.

District 9's town square isn't more than half a mile from our house, so the walk is short but difficult for me due to my sister's hands covering my eyes the entire time. Chiara's little hands are just the right size to fit over my eyes, which would normally be adorable, but not when I'm trying to walk through town. I try to put her down a few times, but she screams "No!" every time, not really giving me a choice but to keep her on my shoulders. My mother yanks her off when we get to the town square. Azura's face goes pale like it does every year when she sees the Peacekeepers waiting with their needles to prick our fingers. She terrified of needles, whereas I couldn't care less. I clap a hand on her shoulder and mutter words of reassurance like always, and move into the boys' like as she and my eligible sisters make their way to the girls' line. I recognize a few guys from school in front of me, including my friend Jasper.

"Next," the Peacekeeper says in a bored, nonchalant tone.

I offer her my hand and she pricks my finger with the needle and squeezes the blood from the needle-sized hole onto the identifying machine that quickly identifies my blood as mine. I walk away from her and catch up with Jasper just as the name _Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo _appears on the machine. Jasper sees me and waves me over to stand with him in the seventeens' section. We exchange small talk until Mayor Borden mounts the stage and recites the treaty of treason. Climbing the steps is our District's escort, Ogden Reeves. As usual, Ogden is glad in a magenta suit and a blinding white smile. His enthusiasm for the Games is both annoying and horrifying.

Jasper elbows me in the side and chuckles, "How often do you think he washes that suit of his? Probably sleeps in it."

"Showers in it," I add.

Jasper chortles and shakes his head around to mess up his forever unruly brown hair even more. "So, any idea who got voted on?"

"No clue, man. You?"

Jas is silent for most of the duration of Mayor Borden's speech, and takes me completely by surprise when he grabs me by the neck and violently shakes me as he seethes between his teeth, "Did you vote for me? Tell me the truth, man!"

I gasp for hair and pry Jas's hands from around my neck and assure him that I didn't. "Why would I vote for you? Or Lilith, for that matter? Jas, you and Lillie are my best friends. We promised not to vote for each other and I swear on my life I kept that promise."

My friend is shaking, still terrified despite my reassurance. "Alright, I believe you. Just…just promise me that if it's me, you won't let them starve?"

The look in Jasper O'Rourke's eyes is manic, protective, determined. Jasper is the oldest son of a shoemaker and his wife. The third of seven siblings and the first of two boys, Jas helps out immensely with making money and caring for the family. Now that his two older sisters have gotten married and now hardly speak with the rest of the O'Rourke clan, Jasper and his father do all they can to provide for the seven remaining family members. If Jasper were reaped, they'd die of starvation without _someone's _assistance. Who better than a trusted friend of Jasper's?

"Do. You. Promise?" He repeats.

"Yes," I say. "Of course I do."

He closes his eyes and smiles slowly. "Thank you, 'Laric. Thank you."

Finally, Mayor Borden bows and finishes his speech and introduces our "wonderful representative from the Capitol." Ogden bounds forward, his leather shoes making a _click clack_ against the wooden panels of the stage.

"This is a very special time of year," he begins.

"As you all know this year's Hunger Games is a Quarter Quell. This means there is something extra special added to the Games," Ogden pauses for effect, his strangely silver eyes roving over the crowd with anticipation, "This year the Districts got to choose who represented them in this year's Games. Isn't that exciting?"

_In what universe is this "exciting?"_

"But enough of that, let's get to the choosing. Ladies first!"

My hearts beats fast as I think of the girls that I know. I close my eyes and keep my fingers crossed that it's not Lillie, Marta, Azura, or any of my other sisters. The District is silent, not even the birds are chirping. A snap from Ogden's fingers tear through the silence like a knife, followed by the heavy footsteps of a Peacekeeper with two envelopes in his hands. He hands them both to Ogden, who grins at him manically. Both have a word on the back of them, probably 'Ladies' and 'Gentleman.'

Ogden opens up the first one, the off-white paper sliding out, "District 9 has voted. The female they have chosen to represent them in this year's Hunger Games is…Juniper Harris!"

I faintly recall the name from school, and sure enough, from the seventeens' section, comes a girl with long, dark, curly hair down her mid-back. Juniper is scrawny, probably one of more malnourished people in the District. She's of fairly average height, with long legs making up most of her height. I'll admit, despite her bony figure, Juniper is a pretty girl. I find her olive skin and splashing of freckles to be pretty adorable, almost little-kid cute. She scans the crowd with her hazel eyes as she mounts the stage, probably searching for any friends and family.

"Now," says Ogden. "For our lucky young man…ooh. Quite a mouthful."

I bite my lower lip, realizing that the person must be from 9's upper class. We all have two first names and last names for some reason. I think the two last names are to better indicate _which _families we come from. The first names I suppose are just there to match…or something.

I focus on Ogden just in time for him to say, "Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo!"

Jasper's eyes widen in shock, and he barely gathers himself enough to squeeze my shoulder before I start my walk to the stage. It's almost as if I don't have my hearing aid in. I hear nothing as I approach the stage. Silence, the world is in slow-motion. This is so surreal. It _can't _be happening to me.

Don't people in non-Career Districts get voted because they're disliked? I'm not saying everyone likes me, because that would be narcissistic, but I know for a fact that I don't have any real enemies. I take extra care not to step on anyone's toes, especially the few people who know about my deafness. I'm not ashamed, but my parents don't want word of my "disability" out there. I guess it _will _be now.

"Let's hear it for our tributes!" Ogden shouts, expecting some wonderful show of applause. None.

Juniper and I shake hands and I take extra care not to grip her hand too strongly. "Good luck," I mouth to her.

She nods, says, 'You too,' and looks away.

The Peacekeepers whisk us away to the Justice Building where we wait in separate rooms for our friends and family members to say goodbye. As soon as I'm in the room, I take out my hearing aids and pace back and forth. I need to check out just for a minute or two until people come in the room to say goodbye.

I faintly hear the door open and slam shut, and am tackled to the ground when my first visitor comes in.

"Gabe!" Azura shouts.

"Azzie?" I ask in disbelief. I always thought Azura hated me…why is she crying?

She pulls me up off the ground and says something, but I don't hear her and only see her lips moving. When I look at her in confusion, she knows and she grabs my hearing aids and makes me put them back in.

"Promise me you won't check out in the arena. Please?" She asks desperately.

"Azzie-"

"Please!" She shrieks. "You can't _die, _Gabe. Who else will I annoy? Will I pretend to hate but I really love? You're my twin brother, Gabriel. I can't lose you. I know I pretend to hate your guts, and I'm a totally bitch to you, but that's how siblings are supposed to act. I love you, big brother, I really, honestly do. If you die in that arena…"

Azura trails off as she chokes up and buries her face into my chest and begins to sob. "Please promise me that you won't do anything stupid in there. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Come home."

I tentatively wrap my arms around my sister, still stunned by her out of character behavior. "I promise, Azura. I promise I won't check out, I promise I won't take any unnecessary risks. I promise I'll come home."

My sister wipes her tears on my shirt just as the Peacekeepers come to escort her out. "I'll hold you to that, Gabriel!"

The doors begin to close behind her, but they open again to reveal Steffi. Before I can ask her what she's doing here, she explains that it would look bad if she didn't come to see her fiancée off.

"You have to win," she says.

"If I die, you won't have to marry me." I tell her.

"If you win, you'll be a victor. Your parents can't force you to marry me if you become a _victor._" Steffi walks over to me and places a hand on my cheek. "You're one of the only friends I've ever had; and I doubt that you even know it." She kisses my cheek and wishes me luck, then walks out the door.

Jasper and Lillie hurry in after Steffi leaves. Lille's full name is Lilith Romanov; her mother was one of my mother's maids until she died when Lillie and I were nine. When her mother was alive, Lille would come to work with her every day, so we pretty much grew up together. Lillie was a cute little girl, in hindsight, and she grew into quite the beautiful young lady with her long dark hair, deep blue eyes, and ever-present smile. Ever since her twin brother died of an unknown illness when she was eleven, I've been like a surrogate brother to her.

Jasper and Lillie are my only two friends and I like it that way. I'm not a social creature, which is partially due to my family's collective paranoia and partially due to my introverted personality. It's not that I don't like people; I just don't see the point in pointless socialization.

Our goodbyes are full of words of encouragement, and a big hug from Lillie. When she breaks the hug, her eyes are wet and shiny but her ever-present smile remains painted on her face.

My parents and the rest of my siblings come in after my friends leave. I wish I didn't have to rush through the goodbyes to my siblings like I have to. Trying to explain why "big brother's going bye-bye" to Chiara just about breaks my heart. My mother hugs me and tells me that she's always been proud of me, and she takes off one of her necklaces and puts it around my neck.

"I'm not sure if they'll count your hearing aids as a token or not…but if they don't, then please son, use this. It's just a silver chain with small birthstones for all of you kids. I hope that it'll remind you of your family. Your family will always be here, no matter what happens in that arena. You're my son, Azura's twin, Chiara's superhero, Benan's pal, Gaetanna's kid brother…your father is so proud of you. Aren't you Fazil?"

Atta clears his throat and awkwardly hugs me. He's always been affectionate toward his daughters and my mother, but with us boys, not so much. "Of course I am. I would have given up on life if I went through what you did with your hearing. Deaf in one ear? I wouldn't be as optimistic as you were. Come home. Win. Prove to everyone that a deaf kid from an outlying District can win it all. Your disability is only an obstacle, son,"

"Atta, that was maybe a little too much of a pep talk," I chuckle.

"Same old Alaric. Always making jokes; even now."

"Time's up!" barks a Peacekeeper.

I give one more round of hugs to my family before they're escorted out. Another Peacekeeper comes in and escorts me to the car to take Juniper, Ogden and I to the train station.

_Atta's right. I _can _do this. After all, the only disability in life is a bad attitude._

* * *

**Juniper Harris of District 9**

**By Holly Blossom**

* * *

The sun climbs into the sky, lifting the night's skirts and revealing the grey under-dress beneath. It's cold, my puffs of breath spider-webbing a frosty pattern in the air. Around me the forest blooms with life, scrubby plants hanging onto the dark soil, the whispers of animals crawling in the dirt. I don't have much time left before I have to go home, before the fence separating me from the district becomes charged with electricity.

Olivia works beside me, foraging for any plants we may be able to eat. We've been doing this for years now, working silently by one another, trying to scrape together a living for our struggling families. But no matter how much we gather, how hard we work, there never seems to be enough for those mouths always wanting more.

Somewhere in the distance a finger of smoke curls up through the air and over the trees. It scars the natural blue sky with its dying, grey fingers. Mutt labs.

People who work in the mutt labs always have more then enough to eat, never need to worry about going hungry. They have the most prestigious jobs, the most influence, and the most food compared to anybody else. They want for nothing and yet they don't even have the decency to throw the Deform's the scraps of their latest fine meal.

The Deform's are District 9's failure, the deformities on an otherwise decent society as some would say. Not to say we're actually deformed except by starvation, we're an imperfection on an other-wise moderate society that flourishes off the mutt labs.. The Deform's are the lowest of the low, the dirt beneath everyone else's feet. Every single one of them lives in poverty, lives in fear for their survival. More often then not, they are the beggars pleading for food and water, the children dead from starvation. It's me.

We are the ones, that almost without fail, wind up going into the Hunger Games for a meager ration of tessrae.

Every day my family faces starvation. We don't have enough money to buy food, let alone clothing and other necessities. I have to watch my brother and sister turn to skin and bones, knowing there is hardly anything I can do about it. I have to watch as we must go without shoes or proper firewood for days on end. Yet there are others out there, the upper-class that waste food and take their relative luxury for granted. They want for nothing and I hate it!

I stretch out my hands, feeling the blistering heat burn the nape of my neck. It's not fair! Why do we need to struggle to survive? Why do the Deform's get the crappy end of the stick, so to speak? Why do we have to struggle, be branded as hopeless cases and dirty beggars? Why?

Life isn't fair, that's why.

I hear Olivia crawling around on her hands and knees, her heavy breathing reaching my ears. It's hard to find food in the forest, the scrubby interior barely providing enough for its beastly inhabitants. It's cruel and it's mocking, but it takes so long to find our hard earned food and so little time to eat it.

I hear Olivia pause, but don't bother looking over at her. I hear her suck in a deep breath, the exhale of her lungs, the scrunch of her hair as she brushes it over her shoulder.

"What do you think?

My face darkens into a scowl. Ever since we've begun working together, we've agreed to do it in silence. It makes us more efficient, I always say. We find more food that way. It's true, but that's not the only reason I prefer the silence. Olivia has more curiosity than a cat, always asking incessant questions and nosing around to find more about myself. That's my personal business; she doesn't need to know any of the secrets about my past. She knows my hesitancy about talking about myself, so why try and break our six-year silence?

"Think about what?" I snap, shifting a mangled dandelion bloom. I stamp it under my foot moodily, disgraced at it's quality.

Olivia hastily looks away from me, her dark hair flitting about her like a wiry snake. Her dark skin is tinted gold by the rising sun.

"About the Reaping," she replies. I see a flitting fear in her eyes, soft as a wind in long tresses of grass. I know she's scared about the Reapings, has feared them ever since the votes were cast weeks ago. Secretly I fear my chances of being voted in too.

I try to brush my fear off though, "It'll be fine, Olivia. Stop worrying over something that will never happen. Why would they send you or me in anyway?"

Olivia creases her brow thoughtfully, her mouth a circle of confusion, "You're excellent in botany. Do you think the district doesn't see that? Do you think they've ignored those sacks of plants you bring home every day? How can you not be terrified?"

Yeah, I've thought about all the things she's said. I've thought of all the reasons why I may be sent into the Hunger Games. There's no hiding my affinity for plants nor my skills out here in the wilderness. But what worries me is my complete lack of unity in the community. I hate people in general and tend to avoid them. People are dirty useless creatures that break your trust and stomp on your heart without a second thought. I don't care for the district and they don't care for me. It frightens me though. Would it soothe the district's mind late at night, knowing that if I did die in the arena I hated them anyway? After all who's going to miss a poverty-ridden girl from the Deform?

I try and brush off those nagging thoughts though. There are other girls in the district that are much stronger, much faster and much more physically fit then me. District 9 needs a victor. Why would they send me? In their minds, I'm sure they see me as weak, a failure that won't even make it past the bloodbath. They're not right, but I know that's what they believe. I can tell by all the glares people send my way.

They wouldn't vote me just because they hate me, would they? I subconsciously shake my head. They wouldn't.

"Aren't you scared?" Olivia asks again, her dark eyes troubled, "I am."

"Well I'm not," I snap, my tone sharp and biting like the venom from a snake. I shove some random plant into my bag, not even bothering to check what it is, "I'm not scared of going into the Hunger Games, because the district won't vote for me. Now give me a bunny rabbit or a rainbow and I'll run screaming for the hills because they are so terrifying."

Olivia glances hastily away from me, fingering a bright orange mushroom. Her face contains the distant look of one lost in thought, her onyx eyes drifting away from me, "You don't have to be like that."

I snatch up a pile of mushrooms, soft, creamy brown ones that are always good for supper. My stomach growls in appreciation and furtively I pop one into my mouth, "Like what Olivia? Fearless? Snarky? Perfect in every way? What?"

She plucks the tangerine mushroom, "Like you don't feel anything, like you're untouchab-"

I cut her off, "Don't put that in your bag," I point towards the mushroom she picked up, the orange nearly florescent in the scrubby brown forest, "It's poisonous."

Olivia drops it as suddenly as if it has become electric or suddenly sprouted wings to fly. The mushroom lands on the ground and sputters down a hollow. She watches it for a moment than glances up into the sky, the rising sun, "See? You're amazing with plants. Much better than anyone I know anyway. You should be afraid of being voted in, Juniper."

When my only response is to roll my eyes and sneer, she huffs an agitated sigh and says, "Time to go home?"

I nod grumpily, shaking back my coils of curls, "Sure. It's getting light anyway."

We gather our stuff, pull the strings to our bags, sling them over our narrow frames and slowly creep our way to the edge of the forest, the fence separating us from the rest of the district. Peace Keepers have always told us that the forest is dangerous, that it contains horrors we haven't even dreamed of. The worst I've encountered is an enraged bear. I'd rather deal with that then the pathetic, parasitic excuses we call Peace Keepers. At least a bear has common sense and emotional capabilities, Peace Keepers generally lack in those departments.

The Peace Keepers are constantly patrolling the fence, watching for law breakers and runaways. They walk along the lines of chain-link day in and day out. In theory the fence should be charged twenty four hours a day, but lucky for me and Olivia we usually only get an electrical current when the sun comes up. Who knows, maybe it's solar powered.

Usually they're already making their rounds at this time, but today, there is no one in sight, no electric hum jagging up and down the fence. There is just the scruffy grass behind the chain links, the misty, morning sky. Somewhere in the trees, disguised under the dark foliage, a lark trills its song. I pause as Olivia's wiry frame continues slinking on ahead, climbs up and over the fence. A shiver runs up my spine. I clasp my hands in front of me, trying to halt the shaking of my fingers. I hate any sort of-

_Lashing rain. The smell of something stale in the air. A voice, a whisper cloaked in darkness. A scream-_

-Lark.

"Juniper?" Olivia whispers, the top of her raven head barely visible over the long, scrubby grass, "Are you coming?"

I shake myself, berate how stupid and weak I am. The lark won't hurt me. It's just a bird. Just a bird.

It won't hurt me.

"Yeah," and I follow, leaping over the fence, trailing behind her until we spread out from the grass, reaching the safety of the squat, ramshackle houses leaning together on the narrow, crooked streets of the Deform area. Despite their dingy appearance and sagging frames, they've always reminded me of support and stability that somehow everybody is looking out for each other.

I think bitterly to myself: _Too bad I'm excluded from that rule_.

I glance up at the sky, trying to gouge the precise time. The sun has cleared the horizon and stretches out like a great yellow eye in the soft sky. It's almost time for the Reaping. It's almost time for another strenuous year of the Hunger Games. Although this one is somehow supposed to be worse, a Quarter Quell the Capitol calls it. It's supposed to be special, which directly translates to horrible in my head. How can the Hunger Games be any worse than they already are? What else can the Capitol do to us? What haven't they taken from us? I clench my hands, shaking from head to foot. Anger courses up and down my veins

As if sensing my dark, bitter thoughts, Olivia grabs one of my clenched hands and squeezes it reassuringly, "I'm sure you won't need it, but good luck."

The corner of my mouth lifts up, a mocking, bitter smile, "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

Her eyes darken and I can tell she's worried, all reassurance fading as quickly as the passing time. She's worried for both of us, maybe even me more than her. She doesn't realize that I don't need her reassurance, her pity. I can take care of myself. I don't need anyone or any help. Hasn't she learned that yet?

Olivia opens her mouth as if to say something, but before she can I disappear into my house, not wanting to hear her false words of encouragment. My last glimpse outside is her, her lips pursed into a narrow line, one hand raised in a final good-bye.

My house is just as I left it this morning. The heavy, musty smell is still there, winding its way around the dark interior, the reek of herbs and the unwashed laundry Mom has yet to deliver to her clients. She always says that the Reaping is a day off for her, a holiday to worry whether or not her children will be sent to certain death. I subconsciously roll my eyes. Yeah, great holiday Mom.

I dump my foraging bag on the table, spilling some of the contents onto the scratched, worn surface. A table leg wobbles underneath the new weight of my bag and I check to make sure it can support it. It seems fine, but when I look up I see my mother standing in the doorway. She has her lips pursed in a thin line, her balled hands on her hips.

"Where were you?" She barks. I notice she's already started preparing herself for the Reaping. Her hands are rubbed raw and red, her hair trailing down her back in wet, black strings. Despite it's worn, darned appearance, she has on her best dress.

I cross my arms, raise my nose up at her, "Gathering food for the family. Where else would I be? I certainly don't see you doing anything."

Her lips press into a thin, white line at my attitude, but I see the scowl soften in the need for food. She wants to discipline me, but can't. How can she punish me for gathering food? We can't eat her laundry after all.

I give her my foraging bag, picking up the spilled contents, while she barks out orders for me, "Go get ready for the Reaping. Wear something nice. Look after your brother and sister while I'm gone. I need to go find your god damn father, the lazy ass. Probably in some bar drinking away our money. He always does that on Reaping day, suppose he can't stand the thought of losing his children."

I hide my glower from her, irritation pin-pricking my skin. I hate being told to obey like this, hate her constant bashing of my father, but I incline my head anyway. He's a much a better parent then her, my only true confidant, but it's best not to get Mom too wound up, especially when her nerves are already shot due to the Reaping. I head off for the tub, the water that is always cold, but before I shut the door, I decide to check on my younger siblings first. I can't have them getting into some sort of trouble when I'm supposed to be taking care of them.

I hear a sudden squeal from the bedroom and know they are there. I creak open the door, the rotting, splintering wood giving away beneath my bony fingers.

August, my ten year old brother, is squatting in the window sill. His hands and face are already somehow dirty and his shirt hangs crookedly off one of his knobbly shoulders. Lavender, prim and proper as ever, sits in her shabby, but neat, dress as she tries to pull August down.

It's hard to believe that Lavender is already fourteen, has already suffered through two reapings. It always makes me sick with worry when the female names are called now. I couldn't bear the thought of her going into the Hunger Games. This year's easier on me though. I know she won't be voted in. Even District 9 isn't crazy enough to vote in a fourteen year old girl.

"What are you doing, August?" I ask quietly, my voice hard and sharp. Usually I am amused by his antics, the way Mom tears her hair out at them, but not today, not on the Reaping. There's nothing to be happy about on the Reaping, "Get down from there before you wreck your shirt."

August pouts at me, "Ah, c'mon Juniper. I'm just having a little fun."

I cross my arms and glare at him, "It won't be fun when Mom has to buy you a new shirt. Now, get down!"

Startled by my cry, August reluctantly gets down. Lavender glances at me, her hazel eyes nervous and twitchy like a captured rabbit's.

"Sorry, I tried to get him down."

I wave her off, "It's not your fault. Just keep on eye on him, OK? I need to go get ready for the Reapings. Mom will kill me if I go to them like this." I gesture to my dirt stained skirt, my frizzy hair.

Lavender nods quietly, her head shaking up and down as if caught on a spring. Behind her, August frowns childishly at me.

"I don't need her to babysit me!" He shrieks, crossing his narrow arms, the thin covering of skin.

I quark an eyebrow at him, "Really? Do you remember the time you broke your leg? You were home alone then."

"Shut up!"

I look at Lavender again, "Watch him."

Holding back a thin, secret smile, I leave the room, once again heading for the bath. But before I can get there, Lavender rushes out and tugs on my arm urgently.

"Juniper," she whispers, fear laced like poison through her voice, "I'm scared. I overheard a group of guys talking about the Reaping and they said they voted for you. You can't go to the Hunger Games, I won't let you!"

I pause for a split-second, trying to absorb this new, grisly information. So, people had voted for me. They didn't care about sending me to a certain death. If I go in there, what are my chances of getting out?

I glance down at Lavender, her watery eyes, and know I can tell her nothing of my doubts and dark fears, "Lavender," I bend down, gently taking her face between my hands, "nothing is going to happen to me, everything is going to be O.K. Besides, even if I am voted in, nothing will ever stop me from coming back to my family."

* * *

TheTown Squareis crowded when we get there. Swarms of people are already massing around the stage erected on the crumbly dirt square. Me and Lavender are immediately sectioned off, her going to the clump of fourteen year olds, me going to the roped off section designated for the seventeen year olds.

I smooth the green skirt I'm wearing, the darned fabric laundered into softness. Somewhere my mother and father will be waiting with August, waiting to see if I am chosen. I glance around, but don't see them, them or Olivia.

A different pair of eyes catch my attention though; cool green, shadowed over from the haze of scruffy hair, a good-natured face.

_Rain, trickling down, its icy fingers stinging the back of my neck. A laugh, a pair of eyes. A feeling of ice and pain-_

_"-_Hey beautiful."

A hand clamps down onto my shoulder, thick sausage fingers digging into the exposed skin. The heavy breathing of a large person (judging from their breath and thick fingers it's a man) reaches the side of my face, tickles my ear. The man stinks of ashy smoke and stinging beer.

I turn around, smacking his hand off of my body. My eyes burn with rage, my hands shake uncontrollably. Somewhere in my chest my heart beats wildly. No one touches me.

"Don't. Touch. Me." I seethe, practically spitting the words out of my mouth. If I were a snake, I'd be hissing out poison right now.

"Hey, darlin'," The man protests, holding up his meaty hands. With a shock I realize that he can't be any older than sixteen, seventeen years old. His face still has the cling of childhood chubbiness to it, sparse stubble that can't quite grow into a beard yet, "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" I snarl, taking a step back. Terrible images from my past flash through my mind. It's of another time, another place, another trap, "No one touches me."

"Hey-" he says, reaching out his hand again.

_The jolt of force. The thud on hard earth. The shrill ring of a hight-pitched scream. The sight of crimson leaking onto the unforgiving earth._

_"_Touch me and I'll bite off every one of your fingers and spit in your face if I feel like it."

The man's face blotches into a horrendous shade of scarlet. He splutters, unsure of what to say, "Dark thoughts, Harris. Now I see why no one likes you. You're a witch."

He leaves then in a flurry of motion, the stomp of his heavy heels, the sweaty reek of his tomato face.

I snort harshly to myself, brushing away all of his pitiful comments. Why doesn't he tell me something I don't know? I already know the district hates me, my hard exterior, the way I talk to them.

But something about his words gets under my skin, lodges there like an itch I can't scratch. My steeled, frozen chest beats painfully, feeling an emotion I've tried to lock away for so long.

Hurt.

Locking the emotion away again, pretending that I never felt it, I turn my attention back to the scene in front of me.

Up on the stage the mayor, the Head Peace Keeper and victors arrange themselves. In twenty four years we have had a grand total of two. District 9 prides themselves in winning the Hunger Games.

Climbing the steps is the escort, Ogden Reeves. As usual he has his normal scary white grin and magenta suit. His enthusiasm at the Reapings every year is almost terrifying. He sits down and the Mayor begins the long spiel on the Dark Days.

After so many years of hearing it, I don't really pay that much attention to it. Who cares? I practically have it memorized already. I need to know if I was chosen or not. I need to how far the depths of the district's hate towards me really runs.

Because of that, and my botany skills, I know I have a chance of being chosen, but I keep on telling myself that they won't pick me. I gorge myself on those thoughts, barely there hopes that fade if focused on too hard. My knuckles have turned white in the effort it is taking me to stop my hands from trembling.

Finally I see the Mayor bow and finish his speech. He calls forward, his leather shoes clacking against the wooden panels of the stage.

"This is a very special time of year. As you all know this year's Hunger Games is a Quarter Quell. That means there is something extra special added to the Games,"Ogdenpauses for effect, his strangely silver eyes roving over us with anticipation, "This year the districts got to choose who represented them in this year's Games. Isn't that exciting?"

No, I think, how could I ever be excited for that?

Ogdenwaves his hand, "But enough of that, let's get to the choosing. Ladies first!"

Against my will I feel my heart beat faster, a hummingbird somehow trapped in my chest. My pulse pounds in my head, whooshes through my ears and trembles through my fingers.

A snap ofOgden's fingers, loud and brutal in the silence. No whispers, no chatting, no nothing. A Peacekeeper marches over, his heavy boots thudding in the cloaked silence, his white uniform glinting, two envelopes in his hand. He hands them both to Ogden, who grins at him widely. They each have something written on them, but I can't make it out. Maybe it's Ladies and Gentlemen or something like that.

Ogdenopens one up, the crisp paper sliding out, "District 9 has voted. The female they have chosen to represent them in this year's Hunger Games is…"

I repeat a mantra over and over in my head. It's not me. It's not me. It's not…

"Juniper Harris."

...me.

My heart clenches, the strings twanging in anxiety. They chose me. Out of all the girls they could have chosen, they chose me. Now I know they never cared for me; never saw me as an equal, liked me even less then I liked them. I guess they only saw me as a deformity, something to be gotten rid of immediately.

Well I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me lose, of seeing me break down and cry in front of them. I'll show them how much a Deform girl can truly shine.

With a stony face and icy eyes I march my way forward. I feel the eyes of the district on me, watching, waiting for the cold girl to finally crack.

I see myself reflected in their pupils; the smoldering hazel irises, the dark, wire curls of hair. I appear almost apathetic, a stone statue for a tribute. I'm not weak, I'm strong.

I clasp my hands behind my back. No one sees them shaking.

"Now," saysOgden. "For our lucky young man…ooh. Quite a mouthful."

I faintly register the name, vaguely familiar from school but distant and of no meaning to myself: Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo.

He appears strong and well-fed, and due to his double name, obviously from the upper class. He has shiny, brown hair and grey eyes that are struggling to hide his emotions. I try not to, but I hate him for having money, for having the food that I don't.

"Let's hear it for our tributes!"Ogdenshouts, expecting some wonderful show of applause. None, just silence from the bitterly cruel District 9. There may be many things corrupt and injust within District 9, but I give them credit for their silence, their blatant anger at the Capitol. It shows that they don't agree, that they hate what they have done to their tributes.

Still, they probably only regret voting Alaric in. They never did care for me.

I reach over and shake Alaric's hand. He mouths something back at me, but for a moment I don't understand. I focus on his lips, the way they form the words he is trying to say, and then it dawns on me.

"Good luck."

I nod numbly, my response mechanically engineered into me, "You too."

After all, once we get into the arena our odds will be the same, no matter if he's rich or not.

* * *

I wait in theJusticeBuilding, tapping my fingers, rubbing my dress. When is my family going to get here?

My question is answered by the creaking, an opening of a door. Immediately two pairs of skinny arms are thrown around my neck. August and Lavender. Mother and father enter in a decidedly less dramatic way.

"How are you feeling?" Mom asks, smoothing back her fly away hair. It's already come out of her simple bun, "Holding up?"

I pull Lavender and August closer to me, rub their matching red curls, breath in their faint scents of herbs and dry soap, "Yeah. I'm just dandy."

My father, puffy eyed and blotchy cheeked strokes my hair. He's barely holding it together, "My brave, brave girl. Come back to us."

"We've brought this for you," Mom says, rummaging in her burlap purse. She is always the collected one, always the one who shows no emotion in a crisis. For once I'm glad for her defenses; it helps me hold it together as the rest of the family breaks down. From within her purse she pulls something out and places it in my hand.

I look at it. It's a smooth golden locket in the shape of a leaf. Warm from sitting in her purse, I pull it open. A mixture of herbs greets my greedy, awaiting nose. Lavender, juniper, cardamom and cinnamon envelop my senses. It's my mother's wedding locket, her only real treasure; the only present Dad could ever afford to give her. It's meant to be my token.

The gift is so touching that I am almost moved to tears. Almost. Like Mom, I have to be strong. Besides cameras will be ready and waiting for me the moment I leave theJusticeBuilding. I can't show them any weakness, any indication that they are clawing away everything I have ever known. The Capitol can't realize that they are taking my heart and stomping on it, locking it away in some secret, frozen place.

Lavender looks at me and speaks the words that all the family are thinking, "You will come back, won't you? You'll do everything you can to win?"

"Yes," I whisper, "I'll do anything to see you guys again."

August nods, "Good. Because who else is going to find us supper?"

Watery laughs break out in the room. Eventually Mom and Dad come and join us, grouping together in our family embrace. We sit like that until it is time to go, until I can no longer hang onto them, until I can no longer distinguish who's tears are falling into my lap.

"We love you sweet heart!" My father cries, being dragged away by the Peace Keepers. His eyes are desperate and his fingers claw at their pristine white uniforms.

"Me too!" I try and shout back, but the door closes and maybe I'll never know if he heard me.

I bury my face in my hands and try and hide from my situation if only for a minute. I need to compose myself before I leave. Another creak of the door alerts me to another presence. I look up. It can't possibly be my family again, can it?

"Olivia," I whisper, sitting up, wiping away my emotional face. My stony mask is back on. I'm beginning to wonder how often I'm going to have to wear it.

Olivia ignores my greeting, having no time for introductions, and gets right to the point, "Listen to me Juniper, you're good with plants, you can hide. I bet you can outsmart them all."

Her voice is quick and rapid, her words rambling together. I see tears pinprick at her eyes.

"Do everything you can to win, OK?" She sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve, "You can win, just don't give up. I don't know what I'd do without you. What your family would do without you."

I awkwardly pat her on the back, somehow comforting her when I am the one going to certain death, "But you won't have to think about that, OK? Because I'm coming home. I promise you that. After all, I can survive anything, right?"

Olivia sniffles, "I won't let your family starve, Juniper." She hesitates, wiping her eyes, "You will try to win, won't you?"

I nod.

And I know because of my promises, one to my family, one to Olivia, that I will. I'll prove everyone wrong.

I'll show them that they should never underestimate the Deform girl from District 9.


	11. District Ten: Blemishes and Leverage

**Well you can't expect to be a Victor and be free can you? The only thing that's changed is the title, you're still just a slave. And this is just the beginning of diving into the seedy underneath of the Capitol.**

**You're not ready.**

**As a special note, two of our authors got last minute revisions in that we didn't get till after we posted the chapter. BOTH chapters have been re-edited and re-uploaded to contain some new information. Reaping from 4 (Con's POV) and from 9 (Juniper's POV) there re no change in the other partner's revision.**

**See you Saturday!**

* * *

**Sean Armani of District 10  
**

**By cottoncandychoctop  
**

* * *

_'As long as you have capital punishment there is no guarantee that innocent people won't be put to death.'_

_-Paul Simon_

* * *

I don't quite know why I'm surprised when, whilst quite peacefully lost in my own dreams, I'm abruptly woken with a quick but efficient pillow to the face.

"Ouch!"

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," I hear a very familiar voice utter from behind me, her usual amused tone so distinct I can pretty much see the smirk on her face and the mischievous gleam in her eyes even before I open mine, "You need to be out of the house in half an hour."

I open my eyes and yep, sure enough there's that smirk and that gleam I was talking about plastered across Aleah's face, the perpetrating pillow still clutched in her long, thin fingers.

I can't help but smile a little at her as I slowly sit up, dramatically stretching my hands out over my head as I let out an overly acted yawn.

"You know a, 'Good morning Sean. It's time to get up,' would have worked as well," I say as I gently rub my nose, still slightly throbbing from the assault it just endured.

Aleah rolls her eyes at me as she sets down the pillow in her hands and her grin widens, "Perhaps. But why waste so much energy spitting out eight words when one pillow will do the trick. I'm just trying to be energy efficient here Sean."

I laugh a little at that, but what really impresses me is how quickly she mentally counted how many words I'd spoken. I mean really, maybe it's just her brain working at a mile a minute but it's little things like that about my twin sister that kind of leave me star-struck. It's then that I actually process what she had said before, "Wait, why am I being thrown out onto the street? Don't tell me it's because I didn't unpack the dishwasher yesterday afternoon because I promise I'll do it this morning."

Despite my joke Aleah's smile fades quickly as she looks away from me and starts staring at something across the room from me.

"It's reaping day," she mutters, her voice almost too even, too controlled, as her gaze flickers around the room, "And the camera crews are going to be here in half an hour, by which time you need to be gone."

I almost want to mentally slap myself for forgetting, although subconsciously I blame it on the unsuspected assault from beforehand. But either way, I shouldn't have forgotten something like this. I mean I've been worried about it all week, all month even, but probably not for the reasons you'd think. Not because it's the reaping, not even because it's the first ever Quarter Quell and two poor kids are going to be hand-picked by the district to be sent in to die, but because it's going to be Aleah's first year as a mentor. Maybe that's selfish of me, to be worried about my little sister when two innocent people are going to be _voted _in to die, but I don't think people quite understand just what Aleah goes through every day, or how hard it's going to be for her to go back.

I smile gently at her, "What? Don't want to be seen with your pathetic excuse for a twin? Hate to break the news to you sis but we share pretty much the exact same DNA, so any of my genetic faults are yours too."

She smirks a little at that and I see her eyes roll slightly but she's far too smart for her own good and sees through my attempted deflection pretty fast, "I'm not going to even attempt to point out the irony in that statement, DNA similarities or not we both know how unevenly split the gene pool was with the two of us. But the issue is that technically, despite whatever you may think, you don't _actually _live here. So by the time this place is flooded with leech-like little Capitolites you need to be back at the ranch with _them_."

I let the third person reference to our family go. After this long I know how Aleah feels about them, and honestly I think she has every right to. I mean I never liked how everyone in our family used to treat her, especially mum and dad, and I had always hated it when she and Talia fought, which admittedly was frequently. But after the Hunger Games, after everything that happened, as much as I would have liked for that rift to have been closed I could see why Aleah wanted to sever that bond altogether. And after everything she went through to come home the last thing I want is to force her to do anything that makes her uncomfortable, but I can't help but hope that maybe she'll be able to forgive them one day. I mean they are our family. I still see them most days, never with Aleah of course, but I always stop off at the ranch every couple of days. None of them are perfect, but they're my family. Maybe I can't pick who I was born with, but I wouldn't change them for the world, even if I had the chance.

I nod quickly before getting up and walking over to my closet and asking, "Am I allowed breakfast or do I not have time before I'm thrown out onto the street?"

"Yeah you can quickly stuff your face, but I wouldn't call it breakfast considering it's past noon," she says with a devious grin as she head towards the door, "I have to get ready for today's marvellous events but I'll come downstairs once I'm done."

Once Aleah's out of my room I quickly get changed into a pair of jeans and a white tee-shirt, probably not the smartest move in a place quite as dusty and gritty as our square in District Ten but in all honesty it was the first thing I grabbed and I don't really care anyway.

It's been nearly an entire year but I still find it hard to work some of the appliances in the kitchen so breakfast, or in this case brunch, is always somewhat of an adventure. I know, I'm a bit of a technological idiot, but really is it necessary for a microwave to have quite so many buttons? The fact of the matter is that a year ago I was living in a house where hot water was sparse, and now my permanent residence has sixteen more rooms than it does patrons. Seriously, I counted. Honestly I never really thought I would ever get to the point where my biggest morning problem is that the pantry is so stocked that I can't find the bread, so my training in working hi-tech gadgets is understandably mediocre.

I know it's crazy, and most of the people in District Ten would probably want to slap me for saying it, but I wish I didn't have any of this. I wish I _didn't_ live in an enormous mansion in Victor's Village, I wish I didn't have an ensuite bathroom and so much food I didn't know what to eat. Okay admit it, now _you_ want to hit me and tell me I'm an idiot. But the reason is, none of this is worth the price my sister had to pay for it. If I had had the choice Aleah never would have had to go through what she went through and we would both be living back on the ranch with our parents, which I'm sure Aleah would have been _thrilled _about, but at least that way she'd have never been reaped. So perhaps most of you think I'm a moron, and that I should be grateful. But better than anyone I know what Aleah goes through every day, despite how desperately she hides is, and how much she hurts when she thinks back to what she lived through. Riches, fame, what are they when your reality is your own living nightmare?

Once I eventually finish doing battle with the toaster, and after seeing the charcoal colour of my toast I'd probably have to admit the toaster won that battle, I sit down at the table and quickly inhale my food, not wanting to waste any time considering how little I actually have.

I can't help but stifle a small laugh as I see Aleah as she walks out into the kitchen, not because she does or says anything particularly amusing, but just at the absolute expression of loathing on her face as she pulls hatefully onto one of her big, pink, ruffled sleeves. Oops, didn't I mention that. Yeah her dress...not one of the best I've ever seen. For one, it's pink. Now I dunno, maybe most girls would appreciate that, not Aleah. Aleah doesn't do pink. I've known her my entire life and I think I've seen her wear pink all of... never. Red, sure, I mean red was pretty much her colour all of last year, much to her distaste apparently, but never pink. And when I say pink, I mean _pink. _Like really bright, really candy coloured pink. But that's not even the worst bit about it. It's tight and short of course, after her...um...alterations...last year they never let her wear anything that wasn't, but this one is also adorned with so many ruffles of tulle and ribbon that it's hard to see any of the base material. Oh and of course there's that lovely little baby pink bow that has been forcefully clipped into her long dark hair to just complete the picture.

She catches me trying not to laugh at her and glares viciously, which only makes my smile widen.

"Not a single word Sean," she mutters, tugging even more at the ridiculously short skirt, probably just wanting to tear the whole thing to shreds, "Or I'll make you wear one too."

I can't help but laugh at the thought of that, "I dunno, I don't think you're quite that powerful sis."

"Try me."

I stand up and move over and lightly punch her in the shoulder, "You look lovely. Almost like a perfect little doll." I say with a playful grin, and she glares at me all over again.

"Come on the, keep talking," she baits, her eyes holding that mischievous gleam they always tend to whenever I know she's having particularly devious thoughts, "Every single word will come back to bite you in the ass."

"I mean it," I say, my praise one hundred percent genuine. Aleah doesn't even have to try and she's effortlessly pretty, even in something as...unique...as that contraption.

"Well then you're either blind or just have a really terrible fashion sense, either's possible," she says, skilfully brushing away my compliment offhandedly, "Now hurry up and get going, lest you have to endure the pain of a million cameramen with me."

She begins pushing me out towards the back door but I turn around and stop her just before I get to the threshold, making sure to keep my face serious.

"Hey," I say sincerely as I gaze over her, "You're okay right?"

She freezes up a little for a few seconds, before she half-heartedly smiles at me, "Yeah I'm fine. I'm always fine Sean."

I keep my ice blue eyes locked on her identically coloured ones, "Really?"

She sighs a little, "No. But I'll be okay. Really."

I hesitate a little before giving her a quick hug, "I'll come say goodbye to you at the train station after the reaping," I say once I've pulled away from her and opened the door, "Don't you dare step onto that train before talking to me, okay?"

She smiles at me with that same smirk I've seen on her face for the last seventeen years, "Wouldn't dream of it Sean. Now for heaven's sake get out of my house."

I laugh loudly at that as I walk out and she shuts the door on me. I hadn't noticed just how awful the weather was until I step outside, dark purple storm clouds hanging ominously in the sky above as the landscape is cast in a thin, glary overcast light. It's not hard to tell it's going to rain, seriously rain. Just one more perk to reaping day I suppose.

Since the reaping is going to begin at two and from here it's a good half an hour walk to my old house I decide it's really not worth me trekking over to the ranch and then making the commute back, so instead I figure I might as well just go wait for everyone in the square. I mean they're all going to have to show up anyway, as Aleah would say it would be inefficient to waste all that energy. Right, because she's such a greenie. My sister is a lot of things, environmental is not one of them.

"Hey! Sean!" I hear someone call from behind me once I reach the square, and it takes me a few glances around to figure out who it is that's called out considering just how many people there are around me. Eventually I match the voice to the face, Ericson Juarez, one of the guys from my year at school and a group of other kids in my year are with him as well.

"Hey Ericson," I greet him as they make their way over to me. Once they're closer I can make out the individuals with him. Deedee Springs, her small button eyes squinting a little in this overcast light, Samson Kirk, undeniably the smartest guy in our year, Xava Browning, Samson's girlfriend for the past six years, and Tyson Penn, possibly the only person in our entire year I wouldn't want to spend more than an hour with. Don't get me wrong, I don't _dislike_Tyson per se, he's just made it perfectly clear most of his life that he really doesn't like me and no matter how much effort I tried to put in with him he just blew it back in my face. I've never really known what it was I did to him to make him dislike me so much, but personally I had always guessed that it had more to do with his hatred for Aleah more than it had to do with me. He and Aleah have a long history, and to put it politely it's not a very pleasant one.

"How's it going Armani?" Samson asks once he's close enough to be able to be heard above the cacophony of worried parents.

"Not bad, not bad," I say offhandedly, smiling a little despite the fact we're all lined up to get sorted so we can go to the reaping, "How're you guys going?"

Most of them respond with generic little, 'goods' or 'fines' except for Tyson who doesn't say anything, or even look at me for that matter. I did warn you, he's kind of a jerk.

"I'm a little nervous for the reaping today," Deedee says shyly, ringing one of her blonde curls around her finger, "I mean this whole Quell thing is kind of terrifying. What if it's someone we know who get's voted in I mean? It'd be horrible." She shivers a little at the thought.

"Don't worry Deedee," I say tenderly, smiling at her, "I can't think of a single person who would want to vote for you. For any of you guys." Deedee blushes a little but smiles appreciatively at me.

It goes kind of awkwardly silent for a few moments as we all think about the whole voting thing. It's become kind of an unspoken rule around here that no one mentions anything about who they voted for or why, simply because no one wants to know and considering it was a private ballot our votes should be completely private as well, and ours to disclose as we want. Me, I don't actually know who I voted for. I just scrolled through the list of names blindly, closed my eyes and put my finger down on two names. That way at least I didn't have to choose who I wanted to doom to their death. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, not wanting to make myself go through the guilt of choosing, but after seeing Aleah come back and watching her suffering through everything she did I just didn't have it in me to choose someone to force that on.

"Hey how's your sister?" Xava asks breaking the silence, her face showing nothing but genuine sympathy for which I am extremely grateful, "This can't be easy for her."

I nod a little but keep my face calm, "Yeah it's not. But she's Aleah," I say with a little smile, and Xava smiles back at me, "she'll survive. She survives everything."

"Of course she does," Ericson says, giving me a huge thump on my back, "She's badass."

I laugh a little but I hear a snort come from Tyson's direction before he turns around to face me, and while I'm sure he's trying to intimidate me the fact that he's literally five inches shorter than me makes that a little hard for him. To his credit he's not exactly short, he's five seven, but I'm bordering six foot one so it's easy to see how he may struggle looking down on me.

"Who cares how she's going?" Tyson spits venomously as he approaches me, "I hope that little bitch is wallowing so far down in her own self-loathing that she drowns."

I take a step in towards Tyson, my face calm despite the anger I feel at him for talking about Aleah that way.

"That's my sister you're talking about," I caution him, "My _twin_ sister."

"Hey I'm just expressing an opinion," he says cockily, his big nose raised so high in the air it's a wonder he can see up past it, "Everyone's entitled to one."

"That's true," I agree evenly, not letting his arrogance get to me, "But the fact of the matter is that you know very little about my sister. You haven't had to go through what she went through, or deal with what she's had to deal with. You haven't known a fraction of the pain she's know, physical or otherwise, and honestly I don't think you'd be able to endure it. So basically, my point is that I don't think your opinion is in anyway relevant, or in this case valid, so perhaps it would be wise for you to keep it to yourself next time."

He doesn't say anything, and his conceited smirk begins to fade off his face as I turn around and walk away from him and the rest of the group. But, quite happily, the other four are quickly beside me again as I walk away from Tyson, and Ericson lightly claps me on the shoulder as we walk over to get our names registered.

"That guy's a dick," he says plainly, and Samson, Xava and Deedee nod in agreement.

"Perhaps," I say offhandedly, not really wanting to think about Tyson Penn anymore, "Or maybe he's just ignorant."

None of us really say anything more after that, all of us a little too nervous about this whole Quell thing to fill the silence. Ericson, Samson and I make our way over to the seventeen year old's section and I find myself surrounded by a bunch of guys from school, all of whom I greet and casually exchange a few words with. But despite the outward confidence a lot of the guys around me are displaying I know that a lot of them are legitimately worried. There are a number of reasons I've heard for people trying to justify their vote: disliking them, fearing them, hearing about their bad reputations. But there are a few others that I've heard people use, considerably less malicious ones. After Aleah won the games last year there were a few blissful months of prosperity in our district, people were gifted with food and provisions, which made some people greedy. Some citizens want another victor, really desperately want to be celebrated again, so by voting in people who are strong, physically-abled and healthy they'd be giving themselves a better chance. Unfortunately for the blokes around me, it's our age-group that falls into that category and I know it has a few of the guys worried that they'll be the ones to go in. Looking around me at the hundreds of kids standing in various areas around the square I can't quite help the morbid thoughts pressing down on my mind, the most obvious of which is:

_Someone standing in this crowd has been doomed to death._

Almost immediately after that, it begins to pour with rain.

* * *

**Aleah Armani, Victor of the 24th Annual Hinger Games**

_'I kind of think I'm going to live a long life as a punishment.'_

_-Jessica Hahn_

* * *

How and why am I back here again I here you ask? Good question. My answer: I have no freaking idea. But god I wish I wasn't.

The fact of the matter is, I hate this square. I loathe every little thing about it, from the hideously carved gray inscription of the seal of Panem on the crest of the Justice Building to the stingy smell emanating from the butcher twenty yards down the street. And don't even get me started on the god damn red dust, it's absolutely everywhere on reaping day: when you have a couple of hundred thousand people tramping around thousands of acres of useless red soil it manages to be swept up into every single bloody nook and cranny. Oh and then there's of course the ghost of tributes past that pretty much haunt the freaking place, let's not forget about them.

In fact, I never forget about them. Not for one single, freaking day. But here, here in this dingy, run down square of all places the memories really bare down on me. This was where it started, on this day in this very spot one year ago. How the hell it could have been a whole year since I last came to a reaping day is absolutely beyond me. Could it have been nearly a whole twelve months since I was launched into that hellhole? Something like fifty one weeks since I drove that knife into Maia's spine on that first day? A whole year since Aspen stood in front of me and asked me to kill him? How is it possible it has been a total of three hundred and sixty five days and I am still living every single moment like they occurred mere minutes ago? What the hell is wrong with me?

I fortify the mental blockade in my mind as the surge of memories threaten to overpower me as I sit in my personally crafted gold embellished chair on the huge open stage. _For God's sake Aleah. There are like three hundred different cameras set up around you right now. Now is so not the time to turn into some sentimental sap._

But you know what's worse about the square on this particular day of all lovely days, it's raining. No actually raining isn't quite a strong enough word for this absolute downpour of water, this is a freaking flood. Literally, the drops are the size of eggs, if it had been slightly colder and hailing it would have been enough to start wiping people out. Now that would have been a fun scene. But anyhow, as the thousands of people begin trickling in to the square, the sheep mentality ironically taking over, they each become increasingly wet as they stand waiting in this very large, very open, square. If there hadn't been the constant fearful muttering echoing around the area you probably would have been able to hear the sounds of thousands of sets of teeth chattering as more and more people become soaked to the bone.

Look reaping days are never exactly raving parties, but this one is just looking like it's going to be the absolute pits. Put together rain, fitful mothers, tributes being voted in for their deaths and my approaching mentor duties and you get one hell of a day. But it's more than that, being in this square is becoming more and more unbearable by the second as memories silently but sharply bubble up onto the surface, images flashing in my mind before quickly disappearing. I know, it's just going to be one of those days.

"Lovely morning don't you think?" Esserenda's annoyingly shrill voice chirps from behind me, her pitch black hair spiked up on top of her head as usual.

It's literally hard to refrain from slapping her; every little syllable that leaks from that oversized mouth of hers makes my hand itch. I don't quite know what it is, perhaps it's her complete lack of intelligence, or even her apparent impropriety regarding me, or maybe it's just that her whole life she's been counting down the seconds till she got to prepare me and countless other unsuspecting children for our long, painful, public deaths. Take your pick, they're all legitimate reasons. But I don't think that it's really any of those, I genuinely think it's just her. So you can imagine how absolutely _thrilled_ I was when I was told I'd get the _honour_ of having her as my escort again. Seriously? Thousands of mindless Capitolites all itching for the chance to babysit tributes as they prepare to be slaughtered yet I manage to get her _again? _Between you and me, I think I know exactly who to blame for that, someone tall, ginger and sadistic. And no, I don't mean Roy Rousseau; while I'm sure he would have appreciated the joke. I believe the blame falls on the shoulders of someone who is, unfortunately, considerably more alive than our dearly departed pyromaniac. Phoenix Snow.

Whether or not it's a good thing, that one visit I received from the Empress of all that is Evil was the only one. I can't say I'm all too upset about it either, but perhaps I've just judged her too harshly. Perhaps her soul is simply searching for a kindred spirit, someone to love her and be her best friend for all eternity. Maybe she's really just an innocent little lamb crying out for someone to love her. Yeah right, and I'm secretly the princess of everything good and just in the world. That bitch is rotten right to her core, and there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it. I can only hope that in the three months since her extremely rude intrusion into my private domain that she managed to fall on something sharp, pulling a Relk Stein and impaling herself. What? Not realistic? Damn. Anyway, I know whatever her reason for steering clear of me it's probably not a good thing, and I'm somehow doubtful that she's simply gotten over herself and forgotten about me. But whatever her reason I'm kinda glad that I haven't had to see her royal bitchiness recently, though I'm sure I haven't seen the last of her.

I turn back to Esserenda with my face fixed in an expression of pure condescension, "Lovely morning? For one, it's one thirty you brainless idiot. And secondly, there's a freaking monsoon raining down on us. Where the hell did you get 'lovely' from?"

Esserenda doesn't flinch, her blockheadedness apparently so strong that she's become immune to any insults, "I didn't mean the weather silly. I meant this whole experience! I mean this is the first ever Quarter Quell! Isn't it just so marvellously exciting?"

My god I want to hit some sense into this mindless twit, "Yes. Citizens getting the absolute privilege of personally choosing who they want to doom to their deaths. I can barely contain my excitement."

"Neither can I!" Esserenda exclaims, clapping me lightly on my back. Apparently my sarcasm is completely lost on someone this moronic, "But don't worry the reaping is starting in half an hour and then our suspense will be quelled," she pauses for a second and lets out an ear piercing little giggle, "Ooh did you see what I did there? Quelled! Ha!"

"Yes I did," I say, rolling my eyes, "You're just a comic genius. Stand-up really lost a future pro when you decided to go into the escort business instead."

"Oh, please, don't flatter me," she says with a little giggle. Is there something wrong with the world today? My sarcasm has never gone unnoticed before, something is seriously not right here.

"Believe me that was not flattery," I say sharply, and Esserenda's good humour deflates a little as she looks at me confusedly. She's about to ask me something when I hear an awfully familiar voice chime in.

"Be nice Aleah," that frustratingly gruff voice says evenly from behind me, "Today of all days is a day to be civil."

I turn around and face Heath Greyling, the only other victor from District Ten, and my failed mentor. Well I guess if you want to get all technical last year he was actually a successful mentor, he was the only mentor whose tribute survived the games after all. But that tribute was me, and believe me absolutely zero percent of the credit for my victory goes to him. He didn't send me a single parachute, never gave me one piece of advice and blatantly flaunted his favouritism for my pre-psychotic district partner Boston Williams over me. The fact that I won had nothing to do with him, he was just lucky enough to get a tribute who could handle herself, and for that he gets the credit. Stupid, I know. He never once apologised for it either, I never got so much as an explanation as to _why_ he refused to help me, even though I know for a fact I was sponsored. I met a number of the sponsors myself, personally, a little too personally for my liking but nevertheless, I was definitely sent some money yet none of it I received. So you can imagine that our relationship isn't exactly chummy, despite the fact that we've been living next door to each other for the past year I still can't stand the sight of him. Can you blame me?

"Don't tell me you're excited about this too Heath?" I ask with a sweet little smile, "Enthralled that you'll get another chance to abandon another tribute in some horrific destination and leave them completely alone to fight for themselves?"

He doesn't flinch, despite the fact that I know he's still guilty about everything, but instead just gives me a quick 'up-down' as he gazes over me. He smirks a little as he says, "Nice dress."

I glare at him, whilst subconsciously tugging at the hideous, puffy, frilly pink sleeves. Stupid, freaking, ugly dress. Not only is the thing ludicrously uncomfortable but I look absolutely ridiculous. When I had seen it laid out on my dresser this morning I had almost thrown the hideous contraption straight into the fire, and I would have if it hadn't been for the small note in Carmen's easily identifiable cursive hand.

_I know you'll hate it, but I had no choice. She was adamant this would be the dress for you today._

_Sorry,_

_xxC_

Looking at Heath dressed in his completely fine, completely _ordinary_ looking blue jeans and black blazer I get even more pissed off. How come he gets to chose his own wardrobe yet I'm paraded around like a dress up doll wearing the most repugnant contraption known to man? Gender equality my ass.

"So why were you late this morning Heath?" I quickly deflect the attention on to his lack of promptness rather than my repulsive wardrobe, "Sleeping on the job? That's not like you _at all._"

He rolls his eyes at me as he sits down in his seat next to me, the man holding the giant umbrella behind us shifting a little so Heath doesn't get wet. Heaven forbid the old man's hair be ruined by the onslaught of water approaching us. He looks out over the crowd quickly before muttering, "I was visiting Boston's grave."

Thankfully, the pang that stabs at my chest doesn't get reflected on my face and I manage to keep my own composure.

"Of course, for god's sake let's make sure Bosty's got himself a new bunch of flowers. Who cares about holding up us living folk," I mutter, my words dripping in sarcasm. I do quite carefully keep it undisclosed that I myself had in fact been at that very same spot before sunrise this morning.

"Don't you have a harp to tune or something?" he asks, his leer almost rivalling mine. Almost. But I'll admit the harp comment irks me a little. See it's a rule that every victor needs to have a talent, a skill that they spend all their suddenly substantial amount of free time mastering. Here's the issue, I'm one hundred percent _talentless._ Carmen and I tried desperately before that horror of a victory tour to come up with something that I'm remotely good at, painting, dancing, cooking, singing, but nothing. I literally am good at nothing artistic or creative, shock horror I know. Personally I thought that lying and deception was a skill, but apparently Heath decided it wasn't. Anyway eventually we gave up, but because I needed to be filmed with my skill Carmen came up with the idea to just have me pretend to play a musical instrument and we could play a recorded track over the background. The only issue is that it couldn't be a really common instrument, like a piano perhaps, or any Harry, Dick or Joe or would be able to tell I had no freaking clue what I was doing when I pretended to play it. So that is how the eighty pound, six foot one solid gold instrument came to reside in my living room a week before the tour. Naturally, according to anyone and everyone in the capitol, I'm a complete virtuoso. According to Carmen you can purchase my magnificent Harp compositions for an outrageous price from any notable music store. Admit it, you're laughing picturing me sitting in front of a giant stringed beast and ungracefully plucking at random strings. I don't blame you, it's freaking ridiculous.

"Tsk, tsk," I chirp with a slight shake of my head, "We all know Boston broke your little black heart when he went on a savage murdering spree and got himself killed, but really that's no reason to resort to vicious taunts. I expected better of you Heath."

"Just trying to find some common ground with you Aleah," he says back evenly, right as the mayor walks up onto the stage, calling for me to be silent. I hate to let him have the last word, but believe me it won't be. I have a lifetime worth of retorts to make you know.

As the mayor's speech begins my eyes meet with Sean's and he smiles at me. I get it, how people can be stunned at the similarity between us. I mean we do have the same dark, almost black, hair even if his has a few lighter streaks than mine. And then there are the eyes of course, the same piercing ice blue eyes that neither one of our parents has yet we both inherited. Yet while mine can convey hatred and loathing beyond anything humanly possible his are always filled with nothing but genuine amiability and tenderness. I know, I know, ying and yang and whatnot but I can't help it that he's so damn nice. Maybe there are a few other small facial features we share, but after that I don't see any more resemblance. I mean Sean just always looks so bloody kind, even his facial features just make him seem like a genuinely pleasant person. I mean his face is just as angular and sharp as mine, his jaw even stronger and more defined, but somehow he manages to radiate warmness and my face just screams, 'Back off or I'll end you.'

My gaze breaks away from Sean's as the mayor holds out two perfectly white envelopes in his hands before walking over and passing them to Esserenda. It's almost comical just how many clichés they've managed to stuff into this one ceremony, but at the same time it's sickening. Whoever's names are written inside those envelopes have been hand-picked by their friends, their neighbours or even perfect strangers to have to fight for their lives in a game more horrific than they could have ever imagined. And to make it worse whichever girl gets reaped will have to deal with me as her mentor: I already feel for the unfortunate child.

I feel my stomach turn in knots and my heart thunder in my chest as Esserenda takes the two envelopes from the Mayor and slowly gets up out of her chair, before adorning her most dazzling smile and walking over to the microphone.

* * *

**Sean Armani**

* * *

Look, the Mayor is really a perfectly nice person, but he really needs to invest in a speech writer. I wish I could say that his speech, which is the same every year in case you wanted to know, was absolutely enthralling to me but it's really just...not. In all honesty if you asked me what the speech was about I probably wouldn't be able to tell you, every year it pretty much puts me to sleep. Well, that and it's kind of hard to actually see the Mayor when rain is pouring down so hard on top of us that it's obscuring our vision pretty successfully. I don't even register the bit about the whole concept for the Quell, but most of the details I had understood when they'd made the official announcement three months ago. It was only when the Mayor brought out the two crisply folded white envelopes, considerably drier than I am right now, and handed them to the obviously Capitol-grown woman dressed completely in black that I begin to pay attention.

As the woman teeters over towards the microphone, a man holding up an umbrella following her every step to make sure she doesn't get wet, I see Aleah staring at the envelopes from her position on the stage. It's not hard to guess what she's thinking, I'm pretty sure every single one of us out here is thinking it too.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen," the escort says brightly, her smile so wide that it looks painful, "My name is Esserenda and it is my absolute honour to be announcing which privileged young man and woman have been awarded the honour, by your popular vote, of representing District Ten in this first ever, Quarter Quell."

She begins a round of applause, on her own, and when no one replies I watch Aleah laugh extremely unsubtly on the stage before the other Victor, Heath Greyling, looks at her with a silencing stare.

"Now as you all know, each and every one of you submitted your preference for who you wanted to represent you in this year's 25th Annual Hunger Games," Esserenda continues, her spirit undamaged by the lack of enthusiasm around her, "And now I shall reveal who it is you have all elected to be your wonderful tributes. Let's begin with the ladies first shall we?"

She slowly and rather dramatically begins pulling at the seal of the first envelope, her manicured hands expertly removing the red wax and peeling back the top of the envelope. She gently unfolds the letter, almost like it might break in her hands, before taking a deep breath and reading out the name.

"By a margin of eighty one votes," Esserenda says clearly, her diction perfect, "Pipper Young."

Esserenda begins to look around for the girl our district has just condemned to death when her eyes, as well as mine, focus on a tall, lean girl walking out of the eighteen year old section. She has fair skin and I can see a few dashes of freckles across her nose as she walks towards the stage, looking absolutely shocked but at the same time it's obvious she's trying to keep her composure. Her long ebony coloured hair is dripping wet and sticking to her face as the rain bears down on her and her dark brown eyes are fixed on something, although I don't know what.

Pipper Young, the name rings a bell but I'm not quite sure why. I don't recognise her face at all so I don't think I've ever talked to her before so it must just have just heard her name mentioned somewhere. Well I guess when you 'win' with a margin as huge as Pipper has you have to be fairly well known, or just seriously unlucky. Once Pipper makes her way onto the stage I can see Aleah looking over her with a scrutinizing eye, apparently not particularly pleased with her future tribute.

"Excellent, excellent!" Esserenda exclaims as she looks over Jilla, "Congratulations on winning with such an astounding margin Miss Young."

It's not surprising to say, Pipper doesn't exactly thank Esserenda for such high praise. Not that I blame her for that, I mean _eighty one votes_, that's huge. She didn't just get eighty one people to condemn her to death she beat the next highest person by eighty one votes. Whatever her final tally was it must have been crazy high.

"And now to see which lovely gentleman will be joining Miss Young," Esserenda says theatrically as she makes just as much of a production out of opening this envelope as she did Pipper's.

"And our male tribute, by six votes, Sean Armani," Esserenda's voice calls out clearly across the space, her smile perfectly radiant until she falters a little and catches her own breath, "Wait...Armani? Surely not..."

To say I'm shocked, it's a bit of an understatement. I'm absolutely stunned frozen and I just physically can't move, almost can't believe my ears. There's no way she just said...she couldn't have...I never even considered...but she did. Esserenda just said Sean Armani, my name. It's fairly obvious, people around me are parting, peacekeepers walking towards me. But no matter what I do I'm completely paralysed, unable to move, unable to even breathe. Ericson and Samson are on my flanks, neither one of them moving on inch as they both murmur apologies to me. All around me I hear the hushed murmurs and whispers of the children around me; their words strangely audible despite the absolute haze in my mind.

"Sean Armani-"

"Aleah Armani's brother-"

"The Victor's twin-"

With slow, hesitant steps I begin to make my way towards the stage, my eyes scanning over the guilt ridden faces of the people around me. With each passing face I can't help but wonder _was it you who did this to me? Was it you who wanted me dead? Was it you who doomed me to this?_

My eyes meet with Aleah's as I ascend the steps to the stage and I can hear the gasps as people look between us. The resemblance is far too strong, and if anyone had any doubts that we were siblings they wouldn't anymore, take one look at us and you can tell we're closely related. The murmuring becomes louder the closer I get to her, and cries of outrage begin to chime out from below us. But the fact of the matter is they have nothing to be outraged over. They did this themselves, amongst them my neighbours, my friends, my people, they condemned me to death.

I hear a shriek of absolute anguish come from somewhere, and turn to see my mother crumple into my father's arms. Talia is standing beside them, her fists shaking and tears running down her face as she looks at me while gently stroking Yianna's hair. It's looking at them that the absolute astonishment of this sinks in. They just went through this, every single day all of us sat and watched every single possible second of Aleah games, and with each passing moment we endured absolute agony together. Everyone standing in this square knows that, and whatever you think about Aleah, whether you love her of you despise her, people understand what it's like to be the family members hoping their loved one will come home. So what is truly incredulous about this whole thing is, despite whatever reasons they had for voting me in, that they could put my family through this torture again.

I turn back around and look at Aleah, her eyes still wide and disbelieving as she meets my own. But as I make it to the stage and stand next to Pipper, soaked completely and utterly to the bone, that shock that has Aleah as frozen as I was before evaporates and an all consuming rage takes over. Aleah stands up, despite Heath's attempts to restrain her and begins walking out towards me, her steps strong and confident as her whole body shakes with fury. She pushes away the man with the umbrella trying to follow her and makes her way over towards me but to my surprise she continues on past me once she has reached me. Instead she stops dead in front of Esserenda and I notice the entire population of District Ten has gone completely silent as they all stop and wait to see what my twin sister will do. Aleah's face is hard and cold as the drops of water trickle slowly down her hair and her forehead, her eyes sharp as she glares at the frightened escort in front of her.

Aleah quickly reaches out her hand and grabs the piece of paper with my name written on it in a perfectly handwritten script, not even looking down at it. She holds it out in front of Esserenda's face, her eyes boring into that terrified woman's black irises, before she slowly but purposefully rips the piece of paper in half. And she tears at it again, and again, and again, before the scrap of white parchment is torn into so many fragments that they fall like snowflakes at Aleah's feet. Finally, my sister grabs all the paper left in her hands and throws it down onto the ground beneath her feet, before turning around and storming off down the stairs of the stage and out of the square, not looking at me for one second.

I stand, absolutely paralysed once more as I, and the rest of District Ten, all try and understand what just happened in front of our eyes. Esserenda tries to regain her composure and gives the crowd a shaky smile, before softly saying, "Please join with me in congratulating your two tributes from District Ten, Pipper Young and S-Sean Armani."

No one so much as mutters a syllable, the silence in the crowd deafening as the population of District Ten look up at the two kids they just doomed to death and Pipper and I look down on the people who condemned us to fight for our lives. Esserenda then quickly gets Pipper and I to handshake, and I take one last look out at the flooded square of District Ten, before I'm ushered into the justice building to say my goodbyes.

* * *

**Aleah Armani**

* * *

It is a very good thing I have a maid, and believe me, after today she's going to deserve every single penny I give her. After storming off the stage and out of the square I go straight back to my house, slam the door closed and begin throwing things around the room. I smash vases, I break empty photo frames, slam cuckoo clocks into oblivion and I just don't stop. I think I break every single piece of destructible furniture on the ground floor of my house without even having to think about it. I even take on the harp when I get bold, but the freaking thing is so bloody huge I can't get it to budge. The more things I break the more I want to break. I don't want to get past this point of complete wrath, because rage has always been easier for me to channel than despair, and for me it was easier to focus my fury when I had things to take it out on. It was only when I had broken and destroyed everything within my reach that I began to break down.

_Sean. Good, kind, innocent Sean. Going into the Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell. Because of me. All because of me._

This is entirely my fault. This is because of me, because of who I am and what I'm like. Because of what I did, or more importantly what I didn't do. Because I was too proud to let her think she'd broken me. My god I hate her, with every fibre of my being I loathe that red headed bitch. I should have killed her when I had the chance, and her evil offspring as well. If I had than maybe Sean...oh god Sean.

"Aleah?" I hear a terribly familiar voice call from the hallway, sounding horribly concerned, "Aleah!"

No. Not now of all times. For god's sake doesn't she have one little morsel of intelligence. Can't she see that this is probably the stupidest time in the world to come talk to me?

"Aleah," Talia sighs when she sees me standing shaking violently in the middle of debris and carnage, "What happened in here? Did you do all this?"

If she wanted a bonding sisterly chat, now was in no way the time to attempt it, not when every inch of my core was teeming with all consuming rage.

"Talia," I spit between closed teeth, "Go away."

She looks at me warily, almost like I'm some wild, untameable beast, but she hardens her face as she says, "No."

"Talia," I warn, my voice rising, "Go away _now._"

"No," she says again.

"_Leave now!"_ I shriek at her, throwing down the glass in my hands making her flinch, but she still doesn't budge.

"No Aleah!" She screams back, her face just as furious as mine, "You can hide from me. You can ignore me when you see me in the street. You can refuse to talk to me when I try to make an effort, but _now_, now you have to listen for me. For once in your life you have to listen to me!"

"No I don't!" I spit back, "I don't have to do _anything_ for you. I listened to your self-centred rants for sixteen years! For sixteen years I listened to you whine and complain about nothing other than yourself and now I don't have to listen to one more minute of it. So get the hell out of my house!"

"No Aleah!" she yells, her voice straining from so much pressure on it, "You don't understand! Mum is distraught, she's an absolute mess. She can't even fathom having to go through all of this all over again. She was so worried about you all the time and now she'll have to watch Sean go through it too. She's wrecked, she's broken. She's locked herself in her room and she won't do anything other than cry and cry and cry. She blames herself for this, for all of this. But maybe if you talk to her she'll listen. If you tell her how crazy she's being maybe she'll listen to you. All she wants is for you to talk to her-"

"I will _not_ go and console that woman," I say strongly, not even willing to debate this topic right now, "If she feels guilty it's because she knows as well as you and I that she needs to feel guilty. I will not go and ease her conscience because I'd have to lie to her to do it. I blame her for what she did to me. But Sean? Sean is completely my fault and my fault alone. So go! Leave me to wallow in my own self-loathing and tell mum to stop giving herself so much damn credit."

"And Dad," Talia continues, once again completely ignoring me. Isn't funny how things have changed, not, "Dad hasn't left Sean this whole time, but I'm sure once he does our room will look scarily like this one. You know how much he cherished Sean. He's devastated. And Yianna's terrified she can't believe anyone would want to vote Sean in-"

"Vote him in?" I laugh incredulously, "You really think he got _voted _in? Who in their _right mind_ would seriously vote Sean: good, sweet, charismatic, lovely Sean, into the Hunger Games? Use your brain for once Talia, no one _voted _Sean into this."

"And me, what about me Aleah?" she yells, ignoring me yet again, "Sean's my brother too, I love him too and I'm losing him too. If Sean dies we're all going to feel it and you're going to need a family to come home to. So please, just get over yourself and forgive us already!"

I stop in my tracks at that, almost unable to believe I just heard that. Get over myself? _Get over myself?_ How about we switch places and then we'll see how eager she is for me to get over myself. I literally can't bear to look at her another single second. I walk straight up to her face, stare her straight in the eye and in a low, dark, threatening voice command:

"Get out of my house."

Talia looks enraged and upset at the same time, but she doesn't dare stay a second longer. She turns on her heels and struts out away from me, slamming the door on her way out.

I crumple onto the floor in a heap and rake my hands through my hair. Sean. My Sean. The only person I have left, the only person I need alive and they've taken him from me. As I think of Sean enduring everything I went through, Sean manipulating people, Sean using people, Sean killing people I can't help but burst out in tears and curl my arms around my own knees. He won't be able to do it. He just won't be able to do it.

I hear footsteps coming towards me and I'm almost afraid it's Talia come back to demand I go see our parents again but it's not. Heath gently lifts me up off the floor and awkwardly wraps an arm around my shoulders. I immediately fight against him but his hold is much stronger than I had anticipated, and in my distraught state I don't have what it takes to fight him.

"I don't want to talk to you Heath," I whisper strongly, "I don't want to confide in you and pour out my soul or anything."

"I never said I wanted to talk," he says calmly but he doesn't move either, he just stays exactly where he is and doesn't say a word as I try to contain the onslaught of emotions boiling inside me.

"He's not going to be able to make it Heath," I admit solemnly once I pull out of his grasp and look up at him, "He's far too...good. People like him, the innocent ones, the good ones, they don't win this thing. Crappy excuses for human beings like you and me, we're the ones who win this game."

Heath stands silently looking at me for a few seconds before calmly admitting, "I didn't think you could win, and yet here you are. Perhaps Sean will prove you wrong as well."

"He has to," I say firmly, "There isn't another option."

"You mentor him then," Heath says fixedly, his gaze on me unwavering, "I know normally the male mentors the male and female mentors female but considering this...unorthodox...series of events I'll mentor Pipper and you mentor Sean."

I nod at him confidently, "Deal." I pause for a few seconds, "Why did you come find me anyway."

"The train's leaving in five minutes," he says evenly, opening the front door as he says so, "And it was either I find you or a peacekeeper firing squad."

"Shit," I say as I follow him towards the door. I pause for one second as I pass him, and grimace a little as I turn back to look at him, "I...um...thanks...for...yeah..." Look I know, my appreciation skills need work, "But this doesn't make up for anything."

Heath rolls his eyes a little, "Of course it doesn't."

I begin to start heading off again before turning around again, "Oh and one more thing. Tell anyone what just happened and I will personally destroy you."

"I have no doubt in that Aleah."

"Good," I say, and with that I fight back the absolute dread in my heart, fortify my mental blockades once again and head off towards the train, and my brother.

* * *

**Sean Armani**

* * *

Saying goodbye to everyone was easily the hardest thing I've even had to do. I think perhaps Aleah had it right, only saying goodbye to one person. Maybe I can say that because I was that one person, but let me tell you, repeatedly saying goodbye over and over and over to all my friends, family and just general acquaintances was exhausting. By the end of it I feel more miserable than I had when they called out my name, especially with the overwhelming sense of finality that came with every goodbye. Like they were permanent goodbyes. Somehow I feel like no one is actually expecting me to have any sort of chance in this thing, which is probably a fair assumption. By the time I'm standing on the platform of the train station I can barely believe how quickly I got here. One minute I'm just a Victor's twin, the next minute I'm the most loathed guy in District Ten. I'll admit the transition's not exactly an easy one. But as I'm about to step aboard the train I look back out over the dozens of cameramen and photographers when my eyes meet a pair identical to mine and I can't help but smile.

"I guess the Armani twins are just going to have to do it back to back," Aleah says, her smirk not quite as genuine as it had been this morning. Her eyes are ringed with the slightest hint of redness and her cheeks bear the scars of tears. Let's get this straight, my sister doesn't cry. Ever. I quickly wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tightly, whether it's for her sake or mine I don't know, but perhaps we both need it.

"I thought you were already on the train," I say as I step back away from her and look over her dishevelled appearance. She's still absolutely soaked but she's covered in dust and dirt and what I could swear are a few specks of blood.

"I promised not to get on until I talked to you, remember," she says, the irony not lost on either of us now.

"A girl of your word," I say with a small smile at her, "You always have been."

"I am. And this time last year I promised you I would make it back home," she says strongly and it's almost for the first time that I see that side of my twin that other people have been seeing all year. Suddenly my little sister is gone and in her place stands someone strong, someone unbreakable. A true Victor in every way, "Well now I make you another promise Sean. I promise you I will get you home, no matter what it takes, I will get you home."

It doesn't surprise me at all that I believe every single word she says. But more than that, I know I might not be Aleah Armani, but I am Sean Armani, and I'm not useless. I may not be as strong as Aleah but I have my own strengths, and perhaps with the two of us together, I might actually be able to make it out of whatever hell waits for me alive.

* * *

**Pipper Young of District 10**

**By ThornyRoseIsTrue  
**

* * *

_"Rain, rain go away,_  
_Come again another day._  
_All the world is waiting for the sun."_

— _Rain_ by Breaking Benjamin

* * *

The sun is very much like life. It is bright and shining and is always there when you wake up in the morning. However, the sun is also susceptible to the weather. When the clouds turn dark, the sun hides behind them, hiding the bright shining sun from our eyes. Leaving us with despair.

The clouds do leave. But what about the aftermath? The floods the rain gave us leave us with spoiled food and destroyed homes. The rain, even after the fact, leaves a lasting impression. Sometimes even leaving us to wonder if the sun is even there at all or if it is a part of our imagination.

My life used to be as bright as the sun on the hottest day of the year. Not a worry in the world—innocent, you could say—to the horrors of the world. The only horror I had was the fear of May 8th—the fear all children from the ages of twelve to eighteen have. Pretty easy for someone in the districts.

I'm beautiful; with dark curly hair, I wear it proudly, with a lightly freckled face, and brown eyes. I'm not like the pretty girls with their perfectly straight blonde hair, flawless skin, and beautiful blue eyes. They are so beautiful that some higher power must have given them such beauty.

Not as beautiful as them, but I still am beautiful.

I'm popular, not with kids my own age, but with little kids.

Besides, I would rather have the kids then teenagers. Kids are highly annoying and can't sit still if you glued them in place. But they love you unconditionally and know just that special something to make you smile when you have a bad day. They have always looked up to me because I'm never afraid of bullies. I stand up for the little kids who are bullied by older kids, usually leading to fistfights. I've never liked the violence, but I've never been known for keeping a cool head.

My family is loving and kind, maybe not liking my violent outbursts; they chew me out about how wrong it is to get into fights, saying it's wrong to harm another human being. They still love me, though.

With all of these wonderful blessings, I have no reason to see the rain clouds as anything but a passing piece of the world.

My view changes so quickly. One mistake shapes the rest of my life.

It's a nice day for being early March, so my kid friends and I go to Lake Nixie. The lake is always a fun place for us. I make a teeter-totter out of a loose board and a giant rock, and a swing out of rope and a piece of plywood strung to a tree. The kids always love coming to the lake, and it's always fun to see the kids' big smiles.

There's always one rule: no going in the water. I would enforce that rule very harshly—sometimes a little too harshly if one of the kids went too far into the lake. District 10 is known for being able to raise cattle, not being able to swim. If any of the kids went out into the lake too far, they would freak and end up drowning. The kids always try to go into the deeper part of the lake, not understanding why I worry so much.

This is why I stay with the kids until it gets near sundown every time we go to the lake. When the kids have to go home.

But one day, I decided to go back to town quickly. _It won't take too long,_ I had told myself. All I had to do was talk to Mr. Johnson about trading a newborn calf for a bottle of milk, three chickens, and a large bag of strawberries. A fair bargain for the daughter of one of the best milking cows in the district. To get there, then talk to Mr. Johnson, and get back would take an hour and a half at most.

_If I put Becca—the second oldest at twelve—as boss while I'm gone, nothing should go wrong,_ I kept telling myself.

After telling the kiddies that Becca was in charge while I was gone, I went to Mr. Johnson's house.

Mr. Johnson was always known for his stubbornness on deals; you took either what he wanted or left empty-handed. What Mr. Johnson wanted to give for the calf was way too low. One chicken and a bottle of milk. So the two of us spent more time than either of us expected on the deal, both of us too prideful to allow the other to win.

We were in a middle of a heated discussion (more shouting foul things at each other) when I heard screams coming from Lake Nixie. At first, I assumed it was Austin or Mary or both; they were always screaming whenever they saw something as small as a bug, which are plentiful at the lake. So I continued my heated discussion. Then, I realized: How could one or two voices make it all the way to the square?

I couldn't move, frozen in my panic. _I need to move,_ I kept telling myself. But I couldn't. Not until Mr. Johnson started running with parents worried about their children. I followed slowly, in a daze.

Is it odd that I knew what had happened? It had been so obvious. Becca's a smart girl, wiser than some teenagers. But she was twelve, no matter how good, or wise, or smart or whatever. She could never keep the kiddies under control. One of the kiddies probably went out into the lake, and by the time anyone that could do a thing got there, he or she would be dead.

I guess that's when my innocent view on life died, the old me would have been running with the parents. She would have been blind to the fact there was nothing anybody could do now.

The closer we got the more cries came, not from children but from parents who were ahead and saw what happened. A five-year-old named Lillian laid face-down in the water, not moving. Dead. Long, long gone.

Lillian's parents were standing next to me. Her mother was screaming the most heart-wrenching cries, begging for her baby. I will never get those cries to go away. They will haunt me for the rest of my life.

After some time, people finally gathered their wits and grabbed a boat to collect Lillian's body. But with gathered wits, the crowd wanted to know how this could have happened. Everyone knew that I took the kids to the lake. I was the oldest by a long shot. I was in charge of twenty innocent children, and I failed. I should have stayed. It was all my fault.

The parents realized that, too. So they started to ask me questions. How did Lillian get into the lake? How could I have not been here to stop poor Lillian from drowning?

The more they asked, the madder I got at myself, which I let out by shouting at the parents: Why were _you_ not watching _your_ kids? How could _you_ leave twenty kids in the care of just me, a kid myself?

Eighteen-year-olds were never cut out for little kids. I never meant a word I said. It had just come out.

When the Peacekeepers came, they took me into questioning, and asked people what had happened. They ruled that Lillian's death was in fact an accident. Lillian walked out because she wanted to see the 'scary monster' I told all the little kids lived in Lake Nixie. When the water went over her head, Lillian panicked and drowned.

Becca hadn't noticed her until it was too late because Tyler and Henry, nine and six year old brothers, were fighting and she had to break them up. When the water went over her head, Lillian panicked and drowned.

The Peacekeepers would not punish me, but the district would. Somehow the story was switched around to I killed Lillian on purpose. That I held her underwater then somehow made it back to town to walk with everyone else. Which is complete bull. No one could do that; even the fastest person in the district would have trouble. The more outlandish the rumor, the juicier it is. Even if it is bull.

The whole district looks at me as if I am some child murderer. Our ranch is going downhill because nobody would be caught dead with our products. My parents can't even stand me anymore.

What should I expect, though? I did murder Lillian. Not on purpose like everyone thinks. But with my ignorance.

And that kills more then any knife could.

* * *

Now, I stare down into Lake Nixie, and all I can picture is the body that lay dead on the deeper part of the lake. I wonder if she could drag me into the water with her? No, her body is six feet under in the cemetery. But could her spirit drag me under?

I shake my head. _Get a hold of yourself. _

I turn my attention to my reflection as I skip stones across the water. No matter how many times and ways my face changes in the water, the reflection changes back into my face.

The face that I used to find so beautiful now fills me with disgust.

"I hate you," I said to my reflection. "Why don't you just die?" I throw a stone about the size of my palm into the water. The ripples destroy my reflection for a few seconds, but my reflection comes back. "You're ugly. You're stupid. You're a murderer who allowed an innocent girl to die." After each sentence, I throw a rock into the lake. I continue until I feel something wet on my cheek.

I look up at the sky, assuming the water came from the sky. The clouds that cover the sky are a dark gray color, almost black, giving the world a dark, menacing feel. But the water on my cheek isn't coming from the sky.

I rub my cheek and more water rests on my checks. "Stop it!" I shout at myself, but the water keeps coming, until I give up and let the water come from my eyes. Along with my sobs, I allow myself to think of a future where everybody apologizes.

They tell me they're sorry, they understand that Lillian died due to an accident. My parents hold me without that disapproving look. Hell, even the parents of my friends wouldn't hide them from me anymore. Life would be back to normal.

The daydream hurt more then real life.

Slowly, the sobs become less potent until I stop fully, having cried myself out. Wiping the last tear from my eye, I look up at the sky again. If there was any doubt that there was going to be a storm, that doubt is gone. "Time to start my way to the reaping." The trek to the square would take a good amount of time without the rain, so I might as well start now.

* * *

By the time I got to the square, the sky had decided to rain. I am not talking about a nice little downpour that helps the grass grow. I mean the kind that is so bad that you can't see twenty feet in front of you.

By the time I get to the square, I am drenched. I sigh as I walk to the eighteen-year-old section. I never cared for the rain. The rain especially sucks when you have to stand outside in it, waiting to hear if you are being sent to your death.

I try to banish the thought from my mind, but it comes back to me as I stand with the other eighteen-year-olds. _Am I going to be voted in?_ Enough people hate me. It would be no surprise if I were voted in. Other people are hated, too. Surely, one of the other people would be voted in. _I don't care who, just someone else._

Looking up at the stage, I could hardly make anything out because of the rain, but I notice a bright pink looking blob. Could it be Esserenda chose to wear pink this year? Wanting to try something new? Then I realize the pink blob is where the victors' chairs would be. Unless Heath thought he would look good in pink this year, it is Aleah Armani: the victor of last year's games. That is odd; I never would have never pictured the ruthless Aleah Armani as the type to like the color pink.

Then the mayor walks up to the stage (you can tell it's him because he is so short) and tells us the Treaty of Treason. The treaty is long, it's a wonder how our mayor remembers the whole thing. There is always one part of the treaty that I can remember without any trouble. _"In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public 'Reaping.' These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore, this pageant shall be known as 'The Hunger Games.'"_

Nobody who has been through a reaping can forget those haunting words, not fully. The fear you feel during a reaping is etched into your brain, almost primal. Even someone who lives to be a hundred will tell you of the fear they felt on May 8th.

After the Treaty of Treason is read, the escort grabs two envelopes from the mayor, surely holding the names of the male and female who shall be representing the district for the first Quarter Quell.

Then the escort walks up to the microphone with a man holding an umbrella wherever she went. She is holding the two envelopes that hold the names of those condemned to death. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Esserenda said into the mic, "My name is Esserenda, and it is my absolute honor to be announcing which privileged young man and woman have been awarded the honor, by your popular vote, of representing District Ten in this first ever Quarter Quell." Then Esserenda tries to get District 10 to clap with her. She fails. One thing about District 10, we don't really care enough about our escort. If you appeal to Esserenda, she will continue.

The icing on the cake is Aleah laughing at Esserenda; I should not have found it funny, but come on, she deserved it.

"Now, as you all know, each and every one of you submitted your preference for who you wanted to represent you in this year's 25th Annual Hunger Games," Esserenda continued. "And now I shall reveal who it is you have all elected to be your wonderful tributes. Let's begin with the ladies first, shall we?"

_Not me. Anybody else._ _There has to be someone else who the district hates more._

The escort opens the envelope; it seems to take her forever. It's as I was watching in slow motion. However, if I knew what she was going to say I would have been happy with her taking her sweet time. "By a margin of eighty-one votes, _Pipper Young!"_

You know, I never pictured the voice that told me I'm dead to be so high-pitched. I pictured the grim reaper to be a deep-voiced man with a scary voice that made me want to pee myself. When he bellowed my name, I would kick and scream, to no avail, but human instinct makes us fight just like our fear of the reaping is unintentional.

I also pictured myself to be already dead when the grim reaper called my name.

I feel panic come over me. _I don't want to die! _I feel like a little girl again, wanting to call out to my mommy. I think about running, but the Peacekeepers are already coming towards me, and I just stand there watching them. Waiting as long as possible to make my walk to stage.

When the Peacekeepers are about a foot away from me, I walked up, as slowly as possible. The walk up to the stage is my last chance as a free woman. As soon as I step on that stage, I will never see my home again. So I took in every blade of grass. I take in the feeling of the rain on my skin. I don't want to lose a single thing from home.

When I get on stage, Esserenda tries to praise me for getting eighty-one more votes than anyone else. How can this woman not understand that I am more hated than anyone else in my district? That I am so hated, everyone wants to see me die such a horrid death? That they want to see me cry and beg for mercy? Is this women really so blind to the fact that right now, she's looking at a dead girl?

"And now to see which lovely gentleman will be joining Miss Young!" My escort opens the envelope and I hold my breath. _Please not somebody too strong._ I resist the urge to chuckle. I guess I still have some optimistic side to me, or that undying will to live. "And our male tribute, by six votes, Sean Armani. Wait...Armani? Surely not..."

_Oh god, no. Not…_

But surely, it is. Aleah Armani's twin brother. Any thought of me winning is gone. Just like Aleah was ruthless in the arena, her brother will most likely be just as ruthless.

As he walks up to the stage, he seems to scan the crowd. Maybe he wonders who sent him to his death. I wonder too, but when you have more then eighty-one votes, I think it's safe to assume the whole district wants you dead.

Cries of outrage come from people; I have to agree. This_ is_ an outrage. How can both twins be sent into the Hunger Games for consecutive years? This is unfair, but I look in the crowd and all I can think of is _you did it_. I did not vote for Armani, for the record.

Then he is standing next to me and I turn to face Aleah. I couldn't help myself; I had to see her reaction. She is clearly mad as she walks up stage, a clearly menacing air to her. Everything about her makes me want to beg for mercy, which I think is quite an accomplishment since she is in a bright pink dress with a bow. I'm pretty sure only Aleah Armani could pull that off.

Then she grabs the piece of paper with brother's name on it. She rips the paper until the pieces are so small she can't rip them any more, and the pieces that are left in her hand are thrown on to the ground.

Then Aleah leaves. Nobody would try and stop now, scared of what she would do to them.

"Please join with me in congratulating your two tributes from District Ten, Pipper Young and S-Sean Armani," Esserenda said. Then I am ushered into the Justice Building.

* * *

The room was nice; hell, better than anything my family ever could afford. The room has red roses painted on the walls with a tan background. There is a nice bookshelf with too many books. I could care less about the books, but I think about running my hand across the bookshelf. This could be the only chance to run my hand across something so well-made.

I walk up to the shelf, and slowly bring my hand up. I keep my hand just a millimeter away from the shelf. I stare, awestruck by the craftsmanship. Perfectly sanded, something I could never do because sand paper is a luxury only available to the richest. As I built things for the kiddies, many of the boards gave them splinters, causing some major problems. I shake my head as memories flooded into my head. When I look at the bookshelf, I feel a little better. Then I run my hand over the wood.

The wood is perfect, smooth enough to appear flawless, but when you run your hand over the wood, I can still feel the tree. Whoever built the shelf was an amazing builder. Who knows? Maybe I will meet the man who built the bookshelf in the Capitol.

For the first time in 2 months, I smile. A real, happy smile.

* * *

First, my mom and dad come in. My mom and I look almost exactly alike; I guess I got all my genes from her. My dad has sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes, and is 5'7", a little shorter than me. We haven't been such a tight-net family since Lillian died, but when my mom walks in; she runs in and hugs me. Sobbing. My dad doesn't look much better; his eyes are all red, like he had been crying.

"Oh, _Pipper!"_ My mom holds me, rocking me back and forth. More for her than myself; she knows I hate when she starts rocking me back and forth like she does with my three-year-old brother.

"Where is Philip?" I ask. He wasn't in the room with us.

"We don't want him to know what you are going through," my dad said with a sigh, "When you come back, you can tell him."

I love my family, honestly, but they are about as helplessly optimistic as I used to be. Which is great, if you can hold on to innocence when you're in your forties, but if it may harm my baby brother, then you better put your innocence in a bottle.

"I'm not coming back. I was put on death's door the moment the escort called my name."

A round of sobs goes through my mom as she rocks me harder. "You have to come back, Pipper! I need you."

"No. Philip needs you to be strong. I need to know that no matter what happens, my baby brother will be okay."

She nods.

"Which means you won't hide any of what happens, or what did happen from him."

She nods again, and through her sobs and rocking me, she says, "Please try to come back to us."

"...I'll try." Then, without thinking, I say, "But I don't want to really kill someone. Lillian's ghost bugs me enough as it is, let alone if I really kill someone. Think of how awful their ghost would be."

As the Peacekeepers take my parents out, my dad says, "How bad would twenty-three extra ghosts be after the first?"

Honestly, maybe there would be no difference between Lillian and twenty-three other ghosts.

* * *

Next came in Becca. I haven't seen her since the accident two months ago. She looks much older than twelve, so different. Her once long blonde hair is now short and dirty. She used to wear such nice clothes and now her clothes look like she got them out a manure pile.

"What happened to you?" I ask.

She laughs, a dark laugh. "You know what happened. Same reason you're going to die."

"Lillian."

Becca starts tracing one of the painted roses on the wall. "It'll always be Lillian."

We both stand silently, neither one of us willing to make the first move to talk. Finally finished tracing the petals of the rose, Becca speaks up. "I lied."

"About why you let yourself go?"

"Yes, because that is oh-so _important_ when seeing someone go to their death," she snaps, "I lied about what happened with Lillian." Becca sounds like who she was two months ago. Like a little girl.

I have an uneasy feeling. "What do you mean?"

She laughs for a long time, which turns into crying. Through her tears, she says, "I fell asleep. It was a nice day, and Austin and Mary were quiet, so I got some sleep. I knew it was wrong when you put me in charge. But I was tired, and I never thought of the danger the lake could have proposed. Or the problems it would cause." She finally looks at me. "It's my fault you're dying. If I stayed awake, I could have stopped her. I could have stopped Lillian from going into the water."

Peacekeepers take Becca out so fast I barely have a chance to shout, "I _hate_ you!"

* * *

After Becca left, no one came to visit me, and I am thankful. I needed time to digest what Becca said. _She should be the one going to her death!_

The old, sweet, innocent me would have forgiven her for her lies. Maybe even forgiven her for sending Lillian to her death. But I am not as kind. _I _have been through too much. _I_ have had to live with the guilt of thinking I killed Lillian when it was _her_. _I _am being put to death when it should be _her_.

_I_ will never forgive her. She has sent me into an arena to kill or be killed. The odds of me winning are low, especially after we just had a female victor. There is no way I can win.

_They think you can win._ The cameramen and women from the Capitol take my picture and my reaction to everything, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I most likely am going to die. Yeah, well, optimism. If they think I can win, they are mistaken.

Long after, I board the train. Long, long after, I watch the last pieces of my home turn into a blur and disappear. Long, long, way too long after, when I should have been going to bed, I let my thoughts wander.

Can I really win the Hunger Games like the reporters who flocked toward me believed?


	12. District Eleven: Scarecrows and Goodbyes

**We're almost to the end of the Reapings *_* I know it gets a bit boring at times, since it's such a repeat-but you really need to know this stuff to understand the Capitol chapters. **

**We're 125,000 words in already and we're fixing to have a very...interesting view of the Capitol soon. Believe me, all the action doesn't always happen in the games. XD**

**The FINAL reapings will be on Tuesday.**

**Thursday is our first heartbreaking Capitol chapter.**

**Please note that in the future there may be disclaimers on chapters that may become kind of...graphic in nature.**

* * *

**Erik Fiske of District 11**

**By NicKenny**

* * *

_We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity."  
― Angela Carter, Nights at the Circus_

* * *

I stuck my hands into the basin and splashed some water onto my face, removing the worst of the grime from the previous night's work and wiping the traces of sleep from my eyes. I changed out of my work clothes into the crisp white shirt that I had put aside for occasions that warranted some attempt at presentation. I guess this was as important an event that was likely to occur in my lifetime. My last Reaping. The first Quarter Quell.

My hands gripped the sides of the basin as I breathed in deeply, trying to dispel the sense of unease that had taken a hold of me. Anyone could be chosen. And let's face it; few enough people would care if I was reaped. No one cares about a Scarecrow.

I walked aimlessly through my house, caressing memories as I passed from room to room. My eyes rested on the small bookcase in what was once my parent's room. My vision blurred as I remembered the last time I saw my father, his face flushed with rage as his fist lashed out against a Peacekeeper, the image illuminated from the flames of burning books.

I picked up a book, wiped the coat of dust of it, opened it carefully, almost reverentially, and then flicked through it before shutting it once more, and returning it to its place among its own kind, my last connection with my parents. My last connection to my childhood.

I became a man at the age of twelve.

My first Reaping came and passed by uneventfully. I vaguely remembered the female tribute of that year breaking down into tears, pleading for someone to volunteer in her place. Her pleading was met with pitying stares and tearful eyes, but no one offered to take her place.

She died during the bloodbath.

Something broke in Dad the night that girl died. He was one of the few teachers in District Eleven, and had taught that girl since she was a child. He became angry and bitter towards the Capitol, and their more visible branch in the Peacekeepers, and often muttered things in the privacy of our home that would have got him whipped to unconsciousness. I think the fact that I could be chosen as tribute, and that there was nothing he could do to protect me, just stoked the flames of his anger, and almost certainly helped lead to what happened next.

He became secretive, slowly becoming more and more withdrawn. We'd later discover that he had been trying to encourage dissatisfaction among others in the district against the Capitol and the Peacekeepers, though had met with little success. People were too afraid to even consider fighting back.

Of course, this was always going to lead to trouble. My father, a schoolteacher whose idea of war was solely based on textbooks, was always going to be caught. I just never expected it to happen in the way it did.

One night, coming up to my second Reaping, one of my father's students ran up to our home screaming hysterically about a fire. An orange haze could even be seen in the direction she had come from. The school had been in that direction. Dad had yelled at us to stay where we were and ran off in the direction of the school. My mother was trying to comfort the girl, who had completely broken down into a fit of tears.

Therefore, it wasn't that difficult for me to slip out through the back door while she was distracted, and I hurriedly made my way towards the schoolhouse, hoping to find and help my father. After all, if I could be reaped, if I could be expected to fight and kill other people, surely I could be relied on to help.

He just must have forgotten to ask me.

At least, that's how I reasoned it at the time. I was twelve, so cut me some slack.

When I reached the school it wasn't burning. It never had been. However, droves of Peacekeepers were filing in and out of it, despite the protests of the growing crowd. They came out of the building, each time, arms full of books, and they walked to the centre of the schoolyard to where a massive bonfire had been constructed, but not yet lit, and threw the books on top of it.

I ducked and weaved my way towards the front of the crowd, to where Dad was arguing with a white clothed individual who I recognised, with all the terror that my twelve-year-old self could summon, as the Head Peacekeeper of our District, RyneArtois. I couldn't make out the words of their argument over the noise of the protesting crowd, the angry Peacekeepers and the wailing of children, caught up in this event.

A Peacekeeper appeared with a container of petrol, and began sloshing it over the mound of books. Another took out a lighter, and casually lit the bonfire, immersing us heat as the petrol-soaked volumes burst into flame. The crowd's yelling increased, and I had almost made it to Dad when, suddenly, he spat something out atArtoiswhich I could not make out, but managed to silence the mass of people around him. The Head Peacekeeper looked around, seemingly as shocked as everyone else with whatever my father had said, before regaining his composure and, with a brutal look in his eyes, backhanded my father across the face.

I froze and stared as he fell back, into the arms of a man I vaguely recognised as one of my father's fellow teachers. The teacher helped him back to his feet and said "Just leave it Mal, it's not worth it."

My father paused, seemingly considering the wisdom behind his colleagues words, before launching himself at Artois, throwing a punch at his face which connected with an audible, shocking _crack_. A group of Peacekeepers launched themselves at Dad, preventing him from landing another blow.

Artoistook his hand away from his nose, and wiped the blood onto his sleeve, smearing a red stain over the white of his uniform. He pushed the Peacekeepers holding my father away, grabbed him by the collar and smashed his head into Dad's face.

I stood there, paralysed with fear, as the huge Peacekeeper dragged my father over to the bonfire and his voice rang out, clear for all those assembled to hear.

"This is what happens when you oppose the Capitol."

And with that he threw my father onto the bonfire. I screamed and screamed, the sudden action breaking my paralysis. Hands pulled me away from the scene and the last I saw of my father was of him burning, screaming and writhing in pain, as RyneArtoislaughed.

If I could kill that man, I'd do so without a second thought. Some people didn't deserve to live.

By the time I made it home, they had taken my mother. I never saw her again. I still don't know why they never came for me. Maybe they thought I'd provide another warning to the people of District Eleven. This could be your children: parentless, alone, starving, destitute.

I shook my head slowly and walked out of the room, through the kitchen where the remains of last night's meal lay on the table, not having been cleaned up. I ignored it. After all, if I was getting reaped, it wouldn't really matter, would it?

I entered the hall, and gazed at my bow, propped up in the corner of the room. To this day, I couldn't believe that I had been cleared for one. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, how many strings Damien must have had to pull to get me clearance.

It had been Damien who had saved me after my father had been killed. He dragged me away from the scene, knowing full well that if the Peacekeepers realised who I was I'd have been executed too.

He took me to his home; he had a son my own age who I vaguely knew from school. Adam and I had been pretty much inseparable ever since. Damien was a Scarecrow, a member of the District Eleven Peacekeeper Auxiliaries. They had gotten the name from the old term "straw man", meaning a being that has the shape of a man, but nothing except worthless straw inside. It symbolises men lacking an important quality. It symbolised what District Eleven saw as treachery. They had little love for us.

But they were not traitors. They, a mixture of kids too young to be reaped and grizzled men in their old age, took on the many jobs that needed to be done to protect District Eleven, but that the Peacekeepers saw as beneath them. While the Peacekeepers bullied the local population, imposed taxes and curfews, and generally instilled terror, the Scarecrows protected the fields, patrolled the perimeter of the district, hunted down animals considered to endanger crops or people and kept the animals needed for farm-work safe. Basically, they did what needed to be done to keep District Eleven running. They were protectors, nothing more, nothing less.

They took me in, gave me food, and taught me their trade. I learned how to use a sling to kill birds that tried to eat the seeds after planting time, to snare rabbits and hares looking for food, to clear out tracker jackers from their nests which plagued our district, to kill foxes praying on the small amount of livestock we were permitted to have. I hunted down wolves that had broken through the fence, along with other Scarecrows, and we taught them to fear District Eleven. We protected our district. We protected our crops. But what does that have to do with how others perceived us. We worked for the oppressors, and as a result people weren't likely to have much time for us.

However, even this time wasn't untouched by the Capitol, and the wreckage they had wrought on my life. People looked down on me, partly for who I was and who my parents had been, but mainly because I was a Scarecrow, the lowest of the low in the eyes of my district.

I suppose there had to be some group of people for my district to look down on. Everyone has to have something to look down on, even if it was just the earthworms.

If the Peacekeepers made the ordinary people's lives difficult, then they really went to town on us. Almost all of our kills were confiscated, and all we received was the sense that we should be thankful that they didn't have us whipped for poaching. When we were permitted to sell our kills, we received a pitiful amount of money for our troubles. Many people assumed that, because we were technically a branch of the Peacekeepers, we were well fed and supplied with other necessities. In reality this couldn't be further from the truth, although reality isn't always acknowledged.

More than one Scarecrow had starved to death; it had simply become part of the job. I had once been searching for a colleague to relieve him of his watch for the night, when I came across his corpse lying in the sun, crows pecking at his flesh.

Some things stay with you. It's little wonder I had trouble sleeping at night.

On my sixteenth birthday, Damien had presented me with a hickory bow. I received it with a quiet, and almost reverential, sense of awe. The man had become of a father figure as my own had been, and through listening to how the other Scarecrows spoke of him, I had been of the opinion that there was little that he couldn't do.

This, however, was something that I couldn't fully comprehend. Only a handful of Scarecrows were issued the authorisation to carry bows. You had to be thoroughly vetted by the district's Mayor and it had to be known that you were of no threat to the Capitol. Even then, having passed all those requirements, they kept the numbers down to a few dozen, lost in the tens of thousands living in District Eleven. To this day I still don't know how he did it, but I suspect means which may not be considered entirely ethical, possibly not even legal. That didn't decrease my respect for him though. He had taken me in, given me a home and a family after my own were taken away from me. In my opinion, I was as much a Cooper as a Fiske.

I left the house, closing the door softly behind me as I gazed at the throngs of people coming into the town for the Reaping. I smiled as I glanced at the scarecrow in front of my house, which I had built when I was fifteen, having just joined the Scarecrows and was still immersed in a sense of accomplishment and pride. What happiness I had left in me after my trip down memory lane quickly evaporated as the chilling thoughts of this year's Reaping took hold of me.

We would have to vote our own tribute into the Hunger Games.

We would have to sacrifice one of our own.

What sort of sick bastard came up with that idea? It wasn't enough for those sadistic bastards up in the Capitol to simply pit the Districts against each other and watch our children die. Now we had to participate in their games, present lambs up for the slaughter.

The voting would tear our district apart. People already hated the Capitol, and the rioting after last year's Games, particularly in the way counter measures were handled by the Peacekeepers, had only fanned the flames. I remembered seeing last year's tribute's families at the Victory Tour. The suffering in their eyes…

I remembered looking at Lilly Cross' family, trying to hide their pain after having to bury a second child. Watching her brother, the only one left, having just lost his younger sister, piling new grief onto his shoulders.

Staring at the parents and grandparents of Vaughn Shumway, not even trying to keep their composure, tears visible in their eyes.

I remember thinking to myself _"This is what happens when we stand by and let the strong abuse the weak. This is the cost of cowardice and hesitation. This is what the Capitol could do to any one of us."_

From that day I vowed to myself that if I was ever chosen to enter the Hunger Games, I wouldn't let it change me. I would remain true to myself. I wouldn't turn into an amusement for the Capitol's denizens, bloated and decadent off of the blood and sweat of the districts. I wouldn't let them win.

That's why I voted for myself at the Voting ceremony, three weeks ago. I know it wouldn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things, one vote among thousands. But it meant something to me. I wouldn't play their games.

Well….I would try not to. I had to vote for the female tribute….

I had spent hours wondering who to choose, who I could sacrifice without the guilt haunting me and keeping me up at night. Especially if she was chosen.

Who deserved what was essentially a death sentence.

_No one_.

In the end I voted for a girl I vaguely remembered from my time in school all those years ago. I don't know who or what she was now. I didn't even know if she was still alive.

Perhaps it was better that way.

Her name doesn't matter. I've tried to blot it out the past three weeks but every night her eyes stare into mine, her face full of uncomprehending sadness. I prayed she wouldn't get chosen. I had never prayed for anything as hard as I have the last three weeks.

I made my way through the crowds towards the registry queue's, joining the end of the long line of eighteen year-olds, staring at faces ranging from sadness to fear to anger. My eyes met those of several of those waiting, and each time I found myself wondering if they would be the ones chosen. Would we see them leave home, full of fear, hope, anger or desperation, only to see them fall to some tribute from another district, their blood falling from their wounds as the District mourned for futures that would never be, and another coal would be added to the fires of rage in our hearts.

One day soon, we would have enough. Elevens might be slow to rouse, but we burn all the more fiercely because of it. When the Capitol finally overstep the line….well…on that day they'll see what farmers and labourers can do.

I finally made it to the front of the queue and stoically proffered my hand to the waiting Peacekeeper, who jabbed my finger with some sort of medical device, glanced at it, then waved me on. I held my finger up and regarded the small cut on the tip of my index finger dispassionately, before shrugging it off and joining the lines of eighteen year olds gathering in the centre of a cordoned off area of the town square, the biggest open space in any of the villages in District Eleven.

There was a lot of shuffling about as more and more people joined the lines. I tried to reassure myself that with so many possible tributes, my chances were surely miniscule. How could I, an unknown within my own village, be selected by a district-wide vote? Surely…surely I'd be safe.

Our district's mayor, Marcus Swain, took to the stage, silencing the crowd with a wave of his hand. Few people in our district didn't respect him. He was widely known as a good, kind man, thrust into the position of mayor against his will, and did all he could to restrain the Peacekeepers when they got out of hand. We could have had a worse man in charge. A much worse one. My mind flashed to RyneArtois' coarse, ugly features. I would enter the Hunger Games in a shot if I thought it'd give me the opportunity to wipe that smug, disgusting smile off his face. I if could cause him even a fragment of the pain he had caused me. If I could make him suffer, as so many others had suffered at his hands.

I imagine other eighteen year-olds have less sadistic dreams.

As our mayor began his long, rather dull speech, my eyes fell on the person behind him, beaming at the crowd and actually showing an interest in the mayor's rather half-hearted praise of the Capitol and its policies.

His normally tanned skin shone in the sunlight as I realised that this year it was literally golden. Obviously he wanted to look his best for the Quarter Quell, but dying your skin gold? Possibly a tad extreme. His hair, eyebrows and lips had been dyed a similarly and, as the mayor's speech was brought to a close, I realised his _irises_ had been dyed too!

Capitol people were weird. Bloodthirsty, decadent, oppressive bastards, but at least that could be understood. Who'd honestly want to look like they just swam a mile in paint?

The mayor held up his hands and announced "District Eleven, please give a thunderous welcome to our district's escort, Vikus Heron!"

The crowd reluctantly clapped as Heron, in all his golden splendour, took to the stage, receiving the microphone thrust at him by the mayor, and smiled warmly to the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen of District Eleven!" he began, seeming not to notice the crowd's lack of enthusiasm. "Welcome to the Reaping for the first ever Quarter Quell!"

I frowned, disgusted at the note of glee and excitement in his voice at the prospect of another year of watching children murder each other, wondering how the members of the Capitol could be so removed from the death and suffering the Games caused.

"Perhaps this year we'll finally have a victor! We've been long overdue!"

I snorted, unable to believe this man's attempts at integrating himself into our district. He would _never_ be one of us. Even the Peacekeepers were more our kin then this golden sycophant. This was just another insult on top of all the others that the Capitol had piled on our backs.

He looked around, the smile on his face never fading despite being met with such a sullen and hostile reception. "I'd like to apologise for not making it to the voting day, I was detained by other matters. This is going to be the biggest Hunger Games we have ever seen, so obviously everyone up in the Capitol are so busy trying to make it a success!"

He looked over to the mayor, who shrugged, then turned back to the crowd and announced with a beam. "I suppose we should get down to business! Time to reveal this year's tributes! Selected by you, District Eleven!" He looked down at the crowd. "Isn't this going to be fun?"

This time, the lack of response was noticed and his smile slipped slightly. He straightened up and shrugged, regaining his grin. "The tributes names have been placed in an envelope; even I don't know who's been selected!" He motioned for the envelope to be brought to him and my heart dropped when I sawArtoisstriding onto the stage, envelope in hand. He handed it to Heron and turned away, but as he turned his eyes landed on me for a moment, and he smiled that evil little smile of his. My sense of unease grew, and I shook myself, tuning into Heron's announcement.

He began to open the envelope, paused, shot a cheeky smile to the cameras circling over the crowd, and took out a rectangular piece of paper. He smiled, cleared his throat, and read:

He paused once more, trying to build the tension, as if it needed to be built on, before chuckling to himself and announcing:

"The female tribute for District Eleven in the twenty-fifth Hunger Games will be….."

"BIANCA NEVE!"

My heart drops. I refused to believe what I was hearing, praying there had been some mistake. But no, the girl, Bianca Neve, made her way up to the stage, almost stumbling at the start, before being caught and straightened up by another girl of about the same age, presumably a friend, who whispered something reassuringly in her ear. She walked up onto the stage, visibly trembling, but not as badly as she had been.

He turned back to the crowd, nonplussed. "Now all that remains is your male tribute. And he is….."

The pause seemed to run on and on, dragging out the moment into what felt like eternity. The crowd hung on his words, terrified for what he was about to read out.

"ERIC FISKE!"

My mouth dropped in disbelief and I froze, unable to accept what was going on when my mind insisted that this had to be some sort of dream. Some sort of nightmare.

I made my way up to the stage, shaking my head as I walked. I glanced up and saw Vikus Heron beaming at me, his mouth forming syllables that I couldn't make out over my shock. I then noticedArtoisstanding behind him, his smile even wider than it had been previously.

I almost stopped in my tracks but willed myself to carry on, mind racing. _Surely even __Artois__, Head Peacekeeper or not, wouldn't try to rig a Reaping. Especially not a Quarter Quell._ I looked back up to him, into his eyes, past his snoutlike nose that hadn't been properly set after my father broke it those years ago, which I had heard gave him breathing problems still. My doubts vanished. He would be that petty. Taking my parents from me clearly hadn't been enough for him.

He wouldn't be happy until all of us were dead.

Well that wasn't going to happen. I was going to win these games.

I was going to come back.

I nodded to Heron as I walked up onto the stage, and shook his hand. He smiled warmly, taking me in. "My, you're a big one aren't you?" he exclaimed.

I simply shrugged, unsure of how to reply. I mean, somehow people could always tell that I was tall, just by looking at me.

I offered Bianca a tentative smile, trying to quash the feelings of panic and guilt. She smiled a little, but didn't meet my eyes, and stared blankly at Heron when he offered his hand for her to shake. When she didn't he grabbed her hand and then grabbed mine, and, with a triumphant roar, exclaimed; "District Eleven, your Tributes for the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games!"

He raised our hands in the air, and beamed for the cameras. I had little doubt that thunderous applause would be added by the tech crews up in the Capitol, though the silence that greeted his actions couldn't have been quieter.

I looked into the crowd, noticing faces that I vaguely remembered from before my parents had been taken from me, seeing fellow Scarecrows, all faces united in sadness as they see us in person for what may be the last time.

I glance over to Bianca, and am surprised to see her staring upwards, rather than at the crowd, though perhaps it's simply because she doesn't want anyone to see the tears in her eyes. In the corner of my eye I notice the beam on Heron's face, and I frown, anger rising along with bile as I turned back to the crowd, and as I looked down at them again my anger grew. I pulled my hand out of his grip and stepped away, noticing the eyes of the crowd following me as I did so. I raised my hand again, this time free of Heron's death grip. I splayed my fingers of my raised hand wide into the sign of the Scarecrows, supposed to resemble the sun, my face grim, my message obvious.

_Goodbye._

I began to smile as, one by one, the Scarecrows in the crowd raised their hands in a similar salute, chuckling as the rest of the crowd took it up, some clearly following others out of a desire to conform, but others….well….

I lowered my hand to my chest and tapped it three times.

_Goodbye my friends._

Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps people did care. Maybe a Scarecrow _could_ rise.

We were escorted away from the square by a unit of Peacekeepers, and herded into separate rooms in the district'sJusticeBuilding. I walked into the room and winced as they shut the door behind me, suddenly fully realising what was about to happen. My life was not my own any more, it belonged to the Capitol. Only luck and the deaths of twenty-three other people would allow me to regain it. Even then, only maybe.

Feelings of guilt started to rise again and I punched the wall, furious at myself and the Capitol. Bianca Neve would also be entering the Hunger Games.

She was the girl I had voted for.

Not for any particular reason, not spite or I just didn't know that many girls outside of my "family" of Scarecrows. Her pale white skin made her stand out in District Eleven, and made her memorable. I wasn't sure why she looked like that, her family were all darker, at least those that I could remember. I always assumed she had a pigment deficiency or something.

I just never thought she'd actually get chosen. I mean, there were thousands upon thousands of people in our district. Any one of them could have been reaped. So why did it have to be the girl who I had voted for? Why did I feel like I was to blame, like somehow this was all my fault.

_I would have to kill her._

I sat down on a chair in the corner of the room and held my head in my hands. This was it. I'd have to become a killer if I wanted to live.

I cast my mind back to last year's Hunger Games, remembering all the tributes considered to be serious contenders at one stage or another: Boston Williams of Ten, Elia Zervakos of Four, Roy Rosseau of One….

All of them serious contenders, all aggressive and powerful in their own way, lethal and deadly….

Yet the last two were Aleah Armani and Jules Surket, tributes not known for their strength or ability with weapons but for their intelligence and cunning.

Brain is clearly more important than brawn, at least in this scenario. Very well then.

I won't shirk from the hand I've been dealt. Panem would remember the Scarecrow.

_They'll remember me._

My thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open and Adam and Damien walked into the room, their normally cheerful expressions now glum. I was struck by how much they resembled each other and, not for the first time, felt a slight pang of jealousy. I would never have what they have.

Adam tried to smile but fell short; merely offering "I can't believe it was you… I just…. just don't understand."

I just shrugged. "Guess it was just in the cards."

All at once Adam hugged me, tears in his eyes, and muttered "You'll be back. You can hunt, trap, fight and you're deadly with your bow. They won't know what hit them."

I hugged him back, tears welling up in my own eyes and managed to say "Course I'll be back. You really think anyone's gonna stop me?"

I had forgotten that he was several years younger than me, he had always seemed to be more mature than his years would suggest, and had always been my right hand in everything I had ever done since his family took me in, going along with every prank we pulled, even when we had tried to lure a nest of tracker jackers onto a Peacekeeper patrol, an action we could have been executed for. He was my brother, blood be damned.

And Damien was my father. He looked at me and nodded, before placing a hand on Adam's shoulder and asking him to let us have some privacy for a moment, ignoring his protests. Adam sighed and said "Goodbye. Just come back, yeah?"

I nodded and smiled. "You can count on it."

Damien was quiet until Adam left the room. He then turned to me, his face grave, and said. "Artoisfixed the votes, didn't he?"

I paused, uncertain what to say, before shrugging again. "I think so. I have no proof though. And….I can't let someone else take my place. Not now."

I then told him that I had voted for Biance Neve, and explained my predicament.

"I just don't think…if it came down to it….I don't think I'd be able to kill her…."

There was a long pause, silence filling the room, before Damien smiled sadly and grabbed my shoulder.

"I wouldn't expect anything else. You're a good kid Eric. I just wish…I wish this hadn't happened. I just wish things weren't this way."

"I know. It's not your fault though..." I trailed off, not sure how to finish. I looked him in the eye and smiled sadly.

"I don't think I'll be coming back."

Damien just smiled sadly back to me and nodded, taking something out of his coat pocket.

"Well then… I guess I better give you this now then." He opened his clenched fist and something dropped out, and caught in the air, the chord connecting to it still wrapped around his hand. It was a circular piece of wood, slightly concave, with a small hole in the top with a chord running through it. On the disk a sunrise was carved, illuminating the fields of grain in the foreground.

I looked up at Damien, and smiled at the tenderness in his eyes. He was presenting me with my _dorak,_a wooden disk carved with something meaningful about the boy's life, presented by his father to him when he becomes a man, traditionally after his last Reaping. As far as I knew, this was a custom unique to District Eleven. I assume other districts have their own ceremonies.

And I guess this was my last Reaping. I was a man now.

I allowed him to place it around my neck, hugged him and whispered, "Thank you." before a Peacekeeper came into the room to take him away. As he reached the door he turned back and said.

"By the way,Artois' niece was reaped over in District Two. Sade."

He then smiled and raised his hand, fingers spread wide, in the sign of the Scarecrows.

I smiled back, the _dorak_swaying around my neck, as I watched him walk out the door, sadly reflecting that this might be the last time I ever saw him. I then shook my head, and scolded myself for having such a defeatist attitude. I was a man now, time like I acted like ' niece had been reaped too? That was…interesting… Could this be my chance to finally cause that bastard some pain?

_This isn't the end._

_I'll be back._

_The Scarecrow will rise._

* * *

**Bianca Neve of District 11**

**By Johnbeerius**

* * *

"'_Why, I don't understand?'__  
__'She's mad! Jealous of you! She'll stop at nothing!'"_

—Walt Disney

* * *

I roll over and open my eyes. On an average day, I'm a morning person, but today's not an average day. This time, it wasn't my inability to sleep in that ruined it for me. It was fear. The kind that wracks your body and makes it absolutely impossible to eat or sleep very much. Luckily, it had only started last night; otherwise I'd really be a mess.

I sigh and clamp my eyes shut, striving to fall back asleep. But after as much tossing and turning as a stormy sea, I give up. I slip out of bed and onto my knees. Pulling the box of clothes out from beneath my bed, I start rummaging for something somewhat presentable to wear. After going through the box what seemed like a million times, I finally settle for a blue shirt that's tucked into a yellow skirt with a red hair bow to distract people from the shabbiness of the outfit. Though, judging by the looks of my falling-to-pieces shoes, it won't really work out too well. Oh well, better than nothing.

"Eh-_hemm_," I hear someone cough. I turn around to find two of my brothers glaring at me.

"Geez, Bianca, why do you have to get up so early?" my brother Mike groans. Greg, my other brother, just glares as usual. It's very typical of the two of them. Mike always seems to be sleeping or lying around. My mother insists he is on a growth spurt but I'm pretty sure that's just her praying that she'll finally get a tall child out of our short family. And Greg, he's just grumpy.

I cock my hip and smile coyly. "The early bird gets the worm, dearest Michael," I say in an overly cheery voice.

The glare slowly melts off of Mike's face and he shrugs. A yawn stretches the corners of his mouth as he begins to speak. "I guess worms aren't for me, then." And with that, Mike plops back into bed. Greg continues glaring but I just shrug. He's better off left in his own little world. But I guess they were justified because my mother gets up after my ruckus. Soon enough, I hear the rest of my siblings start to groan; it's kind of hard not to all get up at once when your dilapidated shack—whoops, I mean house—only has two rooms in it. One of the rooms is a bathroom, so the remaining room serves as a kitchen, bedroom, family room and dining room.

Luckily, Blake, Kalden and Sheldon are out of the house. So that leaves Dad, Mom, Drake, Drew, Mike, Greg and I. It's still a pretty sucky situation, but there could be ten people in our home instead of seven. I always feel bad for Drake, though. His life is the worst of all. Everyone in my family is trying to get him out of the house, but he just can't seem to do it. This is mostly because he is the hugest airhead in the world, but I seem to be the only one in the family who knows that he can't help it. The whole family keeps bagging on him because Sheldon is out of the house but he's two years younger than Drake who is still living off of our couch.

"What the heck? Biiiannncaaaaa," Drake whines. I feel my sympathy for him vanish for the moment.

"Oh, Drake, I'm sorry, but you missed your appointment. Mike and Greg were on time and got to file their complaints. But I'm afraid that without an appointment we can't have this discussion," I tell him. Drake looks at me with confusion riddling his features.

Greg grunts, "You should be here when Mike and I tell her how annoying she is next time. That will probably in five minutes because you know how Bianca is." He finishes his insult with his trademark scowl.

"Oh yes, they are a daily occurrence," chips in Mike, yawning as always.

"More like minutely," Drew mumbles. We all look at him in surprise and he blushes, quickly burying his face into his pillow. Drew is deathly shy and even within his family, rarely talks. But I use my family's pause of shock to my advantage; I try to think of a clever comeback.

Unfortunately, my plans are foiled by my mother: "Boys, be nice to Bianca." Well, I guess that works too. When she turns her back I stick my tongue out and smirk. They all scowl except for Mike, instead he just yawns. Greg opens his mouth to say something but with a look at Mom he retreats back to a sulk. With seven boys my mom always longed for a little girl, now all the boys hate how she dotes on me (Well, as much as a poor-as-dirt mother can).

"Come on, family, we need to get ready fast so we can meet the rest of the boys. They said to come by the wheat field, they had to take an early shift so they'll just wait there for us," my dad says.

After a while of prodding, my family is finally ready. I allow myself a quick giggle at the sight of us. All our clothes are pretty shabby and there is barely enough fingers to count us on. My father is the only normal looking one. That's because my brothers all match the dwarf-like height of my mom. I'm a lot taller than them and I'm only average height. And I look different because of my pale skin that simply refuses to tan. Being in District Eleven, everyone's skin ranges from olive to dark black. And my pasty tone does not fall within that range; I'm easily the palest person in my district. Once again, I'm the odd one out. Even my dwarfish brothers fall within range with their Mexican features. Or at least that's what my grandma told my mom; I have absolutely no idea what a Mexican is. I dismiss the thought as we begin to file down to the wheat field. Halfway there we are ambushed by my other brothers.

"Blake, Kalden, Sheldon!" I squeal, excited to see my more civilized brothers. I give them each a big hug. When I release Sheldon, he sneezes in my face. "Ewww!" All of my brothers then begin to laugh. Maybe they aren't so civilized after all.

"You're, ummm, you're—_Sneezy!_ You're Sneezy," Drake yells trying to playfully insult Sheldon. Sheldon ignores the attempt at an insult and sneezes again. Drake bursts into laughter.

"I was going to say something else," Greg says, "but I guess we'll keep it rated G and go with Sneezy." My mom gives him a quick scowl.

I smile and laugh at my goofy family. But I promised my friend, Winnie, that I would talk to her before reapings. I tell my family this and leave to find her. After a while of searching I find my friend. She is perched on a tree branch scanning the area for me. "Winnie!" I shout. Her eyes follow my voice; once she spots me she smiles and leaps down from her branch. She quickly catches her balance and grins again. Her bird-like stance and the mischievous sparkle in her dark eyes make her look impish. I feel myself smile. "Oh no, Winnie, what are you cooking up?"

Winnie ignores me, standing on her tip-toes to catch a peek at something. Finally she flashes a smile. "Oh my gosh, here he comes," Winnie squeals.

I see a loved figure approaching. "Shut up, Winnie," I say hastily, "we don't want him to hear us. He'll think we're freaks!" Winnie nods enthusiastically. I look back at him and beam. It's Randy Tomlinson, and I've had the hugest crush on him practically since I first looked at him. His real name is Ferdinand, and you'd think he'd match the unattractiveness of his name. In reality, he is anything but. He smiles back at me and I feel my heart flutter like the wings of a butterfly. But then the butterfly comes crashing down, into the icy reaches of despair. Randy has been intercepted by Brittney Whittaker, the most beloved girl in the whole district. My heart sinks a little lower; Randy was never coming towards me, but towards Brittney all along.

I feel hot tears burn at my eyes, so unlike the cold sorrow that gripped my body. The tears were for so many things; Randy and Brittney, me even thinking that Randy could like a girl like me, my family's situation and Brittney tormenting me since the first grade when I've never done one wrong thing to here. Life just didn't make sense. But I take a deep breath and instead of letting the tears drip I sigh. "Why does she hate me?"

"She hates you because she's jealous," Winnie says. I raise my eyebrows skeptically. "Why shouldn't she be jealous? You're beautiful, kind, unique and you have the coolest best friend in the history of the world. Plus, I think Randy likes you."

I look back over at Randy and see Brittney still hovering by him. She's sticking her chest out and flipping her long hair. I roll my eyes. "The reason doesn't matter because she is still a jerk. I mean, the nicest thing she has ever done to me is when she makes fun of my skin and calls me eggwhite."

It seemed Brittney's sensors kicked in right then because she started walking over towards us. I swear she is like a shark and can sense a wounded fish from miles away. "Hey, look, it's Eggwhite and her dark little friend, Shortstuff," Brittney jeers. Winnie stands up as straight as she can, trying to look intimidating but that's impossible for her kind soul. Brittney looks at us for a reply, but as soon as I open my mouth for an answer, she cuts me off. "You know what they say, every woman for herself. I hope with that in mind, you'll understand."I feel Winnie shrink down next to me and my heart sink. "You're aware that it is the Quarter Quell. I also assume you know that this year we got to vote on our tribute, or should I say...scapegoat. Instantly I thought of someone perfect for the job. I thought of you. And just in case that others didn't feel this way, I told them my thoughts and told them to pass it along, and you know how influential I am. Anyways, I just wanted to wish you good luck. You'll sure need it. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

Brittney smirks and struts away. My heart sinks even further. The whole district will listen to Brittney; she's basically sent me off to my death. I feel Winnie's small hand grab mine, she leads my shell-shocked body to the town square.

* * *

Winnie squeezes my hand reassuringly. I felt myself shaking with fear. At first, it was just mild tremors. But as the speech finished and the Head Peacekeeper, Ryne Arte, mounted the stage with an envelope in his hand the shaking escalated. Winnie's hand was my only anchor from a total melt-down. Peacekeeper Arte slides the envelope into our escort's golden hand. The escort clears his throat and opens the heavily decorated envelope.

"...BIANCA NEVE!"

Winnie gasps next to me and I think my heart is about to explode. I take a steadying breath and force my legs to carry me onto the stage. On the first step, my knees buckle and I stumble a little. Winnie grabs my elbow and steadies me. I suck in another deep breath and continue my way up the stage. When I'm on the stage I turn my gaze up, I don't want to see Brittney's smirk.

"ERIC FISKE!"

I spot a tall, dark boy walk to the stage with his head held high. I faintly recognize him as the District's orphan and one of the Scarecrows. So, generally, I've never been around him much because Scarecrows are looked down upon, even though their job is to keep the crops safe. But I don't have much time for remorse because the girls' envelope was coming next.

* * *

My family bounds into the room and scoops me up in a bear hug. Ramblings of advice and confessions of love blast in my ears. I think I even saw Greg get a little teary-eyed. Seven big hugs, seven kisses on the cheek and seven pieces of advice from my seven brothers. Each one of them is important to me. We hold onto each other for as long as we can, but our time together is severed by Peacekeepers dragging my family away.

Winnie rushes in to replace my family. I let the tears come flooding back from earlier, this time with no restraints. I feel a warm and comforting hand on my shoulder. Winnie gently turned me around and gave me a hug. I feel a tear drip down my face and land on Winnie's shirt. It is quickly absorbed by the fabric. "It's okay, Bianca. Brittney is just an attention-seeking slut," she whispers in my ear. There is Winnie again, helping me beat back the sadness. She does just as her shirt did, absorb and hide the sadness. "She'll soon get what's coming to her. And Bianca, no matter what happens, you've been the best friend. Forget what I said earlier, I'm not the coolest best friend in the history of the world, you are." After that statement, we both break down into body-wracking sobs. We hug each other tight until the Peacekeeper rips away another one of my loved ones. But then something surprising happens, another visitor comes in. I gasp as he walks in; it's Randy.

"Hello, Bianca," he says. He shuffles his feet nervously before starting again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it took until now for me to get up the nerve to talk to you." He looks at me and begins rambling, "Brittney is a huge jerk. How dare she send you away? I didn't vote for you to go, I voted for her to go into the games. I like you, Bianca, try to make it back, try to prove Brittney wrong. I'll try to help; maybe I'll send you sponsoring gifts or help your family."

The door swings open and an angry Peacekeeper stomps in. Randy takes my hand and squeezes it as the Peacekeeper takes his other arm and pulls him away. He lets go of my hand and gives me a sad smile. The Peacekeeper returns without Randy and leads me to the train. I see my family and Winnie crying together at the train station, trying to get a last glimpse at me. Tears drip down my face and my mind is clouded with fear, longing for my family and friends and Randy's confusing goodbye.

But things could only get worse from here.


	13. District Twelve: Broken Promise

**And here you go, the FINAL reaping. Thursday will bring us (finally) into the seedy Capitol.**

**We've been invited to write for charity, and our hopes is to send in a piece on What If Relk Stein Won the 24th Hunger Games? and an alternate reality where Nella Burchalynn and Aspen Checkov were never reaped. I'll release more details soon! You'll be able to read them sooner through the charity-if not, you'll be waiting till at least December before their available on here. But more news soon and see you Thursday!**

* * *

**Lucian Drake of District 12 **

**By JGrayzz**

* * *

"_The soul that has conceived one wickedness can nurse no good thereafter."_

— Sophocles

* * *

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

I hear the thundering and unlatching of the door as I lay on my cloth mattress, while thin streams of sunlight hit my face from the small window up above.

My eyes are already opened-they've been opened throughout most of the night. I never really could sleep, even if I tried. Why bother? There are so many things to wonder about, such great thoughts to be conceived. There is no time for sleep.

_Smile, why don't you? Today's your day isn't it?_

I don't smile, I never honestly smile for any other reason than to smile. I don't feel the happiness of it, nor do I see the point of it. I don't see the point to put on a show for anyone but myself. I feel nothing, and have felt nothing for some time now.

My father's books taught me all about human behavior. They interested me to say the least. A book all about reading humankind? It was like finding a pot of gold. Even if I couldn't feel the things most people could, I could still imagine the feelings. Then I would sit on a bench and match the emotions to the face of anyone who passes.

It became a game of mine-to help me relax. To gain a sense of normalcy, a normalcy I could not find even in myself.

_I am a monster after all._

I sit on my bed and rub my eyes, trying to adjust to the blinding sun beams. Then, I do smile. I smile because I know what today is. It happens every year, and while some may consider it cruel and controversial, I find it as an art. A living masterpiece-a production put on by the greatest of entertainers throughout the pathetic landmass that is Panem.

_I can't wait to join the show._

I will be one of the lead characters, while everyone else will watch me from the side stage and cheer me on. And as time goes on, some characters will have to go home. Only the most beautiful and graceful must remain after all. To compensate for their departure, the audience will throw maroon roses upon their feet as they leave.

_I hope to get thorny roses of midnight._

I look around the dusty room in which I had to live in for years upon years. Old books sat upon a wooden shelf against the wall. Opposite this wall was a small dresser, filled with a small assortment of clothes and trinkets which I obtained from the Hob.

Near my bed was a small work desk; a quill and ink surrounded by pages of sketches and writings.

I walked over to the work desk and picked up a recent page. It was a crude depiction of a possible Arena for the Quell. I had drawn the Cornucopia in the center of a circle of fire. Tribute pods descended from above as opposed to below and were chained to the large Cornucopia platform, while demon-like mutts flew around the pods and ceiling, snatching up the slowest and weakest of tributes.

The drawing ended there, but I was planning on adding caves and crevices along the rocky walls, with moving bridges connecting them. Eventually the bridges would collapse into the fiery pit.

And all the while the fire would increase as the insanity and anger of the tributes would increase; until it consumed the labyrinth of caves and all the lava raised towards the ceiling in which they had arrived.

_How ironic—tributes would die of their own rage._

I put the paper down and slipped a blank sheet in my pocket, then I opened the dusty wooden closet. In there sat a small arrangement of weapons: some deadly looking knives, and my prized possession, the Khopesh. It was an old-world weapon revitalized by the Capital during the 7th Hunger Games; a combination of an axe and a sword.

Alistair Drake, my uncle, would use this very weapon to slaughter 11 tributes, eventually becoming one of the runner-ups in the 7th Hunger Games. He ended up getting hacked up by a crazed Career. The Khopesh I have now is merely a replica, but a fine one at that, and I even made a few dents in it to ensure realism.

I'm proud to be a Drake. It is a long lineage that stretches even into ancient times; we Drakes are survivors, as well as bloodthirsty-though most of us would not admit it to be so.

Unfortunately, my grandfather, the mastermind trainer behind my uncle's near success, "died" in a tragic accident recently in District Two. He got a little too ahead of himself on live television and publicly embarrassed the President as well as the Capitol. He was a warrior of a man, but was awfully hard on my father and his siblings.

It is common knowledge that my grandfather pressured my father, Henry as well as Alistair, into joining the Games as they were children. My father's last year as a potential tribute ended on a tragic note; his sister was picked.

She never made it past the bloodbath…

My father was plagued by nightmares for years, and became a drunk just like Alistair to prevent these nightmares. He never allowed me to watch the Games growing up.

_Perhaps it was for the best._

I had trained with these weapons for years now, perfecting their every movement and usage. My father hated me for it, but that's fine with me. I never really liked him anyway.

After today, I will no longer be in this filthy wasteland that is District 12. I will no longer have to deal with my bastard father or the deranged citizens of my District. After today, I will be living my dreams.

_I had made sure of it._

I opened my chamber door and headed down the hall. The house was old and dusty, not to mention grimy. But that was to be expected when living in the Seam.

I looked at the old clock on the wall. It read 9:06 AM.

I have about an hour to spare before the Reapings…this should give me enough time to relax for at least a little while. I smell burnt bread wafting from the kitchen, but I don't bother eating. Not enough time for such nonsense.

I pass Henry talking to my older sister, Amber, in the kitchen. They stop talking to each other as I pass them by; I could feel their gazes on my back-but I really don't care. I never cared what they thought of me. I held them with the same value that I held with the citizens of District 12: meaningless.

I go to look at the slightly cracked mirror hanging on the wall. I had the typical Seam look. The exception being that I don't have tan skin, but rather more pale and sickly looking skin, as if I'm a walking carcass. It doesn't help that I haven't slept in…days? Weeks? Months? I fix my messy, dark hair and stare at myself.

Nothing I know stares back.

_Crack the mirror some more why don't you?_

I grimace and turn to look at Henry and Amber. Henry turns his head slightly the other way and clenches his teeth, looking like he had just lost a child or something. Perhaps he already has. Amber fidgets and stares at her feet, crossing her arms.

I take note of the dead atmosphere; it's something I've grown used to while I'm around my family. They don't know how to talk to me or what to say to me, so they choose to not say anything at all.

_Good enough for me._

Henry is the only one who really speaks to me, and that's only because he's a guardian. I don't see why he bothers anymore. He's just as much a monster as I am. It isn't unusual for him to smack me or yell at me-especially when he's drunk. I don't feel the pain, but I pretend I do, so he'll leave me alone.

Usually he just locks me in my room like the monster that I am. The only person allowed in to see me is Cyrus…he's the only person I want to see anyway. And that's not because he gives me my medicine either. He actually talks to me. He treats me like a son.

I go over to put my boots on, tying the laces quickly and roughly. I wanted to get out of this house already. For some reason, Amber must have seen my anxiety and walked over to me. She rubs my shoulders and encourages me as I tie my right boot.

"You'll be back before you know it," she says reassuringly.

"Yeah," I murmur without a thought.

_Why does she bother?_

I finish tying my left boot and adjust my pants. I hear a bottle being opened and turn my head to glance at Henry, who is sipping alcohol near the sink.

"I'd listen to her if I were you," Henry roughly mutters while taking another chug from his alcohol.

I coldly laugh as I stand back up, "I thought you said you would quit-guess you didn't think about Mother after all when you made your promises."

Henry eyes me carefully, then chuckles to himself. "As long as you're still running around this district, there's no chance in hell I'm stopping."

I nod my head and head towards the door, ignoring the glare that Henry might be shooting towards me. I have one foot out the door-but I pause and turn my head around to look at Henry-the pathetic looking excuse for a guardian. Henry, the man most responsible for my mother's departure.

"You know, if there were a time where I actually thought of you as my father, it has all but faded away from my memory. The only thing I see standing before me now, is a coward."

And with that, I turn and leave, making sure to slam the door on the way out. The slam of the wooden door is accompanied by the shattering of a glass bottle from inside. I smirk, knowing I've won. I make my way along the dirt road, leaving my prison once and for all.

I attempt to take a full breath of air but only end up nearly gagging. It's impossible to breathe in pure air-not in this damned district. Not with all the coal being mined or the nasty fumes those machines emit.

I take a moment to give one last glance at the fallen apart and grimy looking home I had been literally locked up in for years, and shake my head.

I can hear the cries of my mother as she is bruised and beat by Henry. She has nowhere to turn to, not even me as I stare blankly at the scene and drift my emotions and mind off into another world, shutting them off, sending all that's human of me away to the stars.

I can smell the alcohol emitting from Henry's mouth as he yells at me and locks me in my room for the umpteenth time.

I can feel the stinging of the blades as I send them across my own body, learning to resist the aspect of physical pain…secretly training for the Games…training to fight back.

I can taste the bile that rises up in my throat as I cut up an animal for the first time with one of my grandfather's dull knives. I know I'll have to get used to this.

I can see the edges of my vision turning scarlet red at age 11, fearing that I was turning into some sort of demon…or devil. Henry admitted to naming me after a monster of the Old World. I may have cried _tears of blood _at this prospect.

And so I became the monster that I was born to be.

I brush all those memories away and mentally break them apart; I shiver instinctively. I smack my hands against my head and take a moment to readjust myself before walking once more. I stop to think about one face for the last time…a face I will never again see.

_Henry, the man who I don't recall ever existing._

I could almost hear him shattering into pieces.

* * *

As I walked along the dirt path, I couldn't help but notice the vague outline of a forest stretching along the side of the district. There are times where I wish I could just up and leave-to run as far as I can through the forest until I couldn't run anymore.

I scanned the forest and the fence guarding it from a distance, regarding it with interest. If I could just slip under that fence, running away wouldn't be a problem.

_I wonder what's out there…_

Freedom most likely. A place where savage beasts walk-a place where monsters roam.

_Monsters like me._

I sigh and continue along the Seam road, ignoring the temptations of freedom, even if it is possible. Perhaps, maybe in another lifetime I could have had the state of mind to run. I've wasted my chances, there is no going back from today.

I don't know what the future will bring, but I do hope that people would be wise enough to traverse the forest…at least find out what it is…for me. Do the things I never could do, because of…

I'm reaching the end of the path and notice the sound of voices. Not just any voices, I might know who one of these voices belongs to.

I walk further and notice a rusty and grimy looking shack, abandoned most likely. I quietly make my way around the shack and see two teenagers…practically necking.

I grimace-I definitely know who one of them is. It's my sister, Katherine. I haven't announced my final departure to everyone…

_Perhaps I should pay her a visit._

I snicker and walk ever so slowly toward the couple, then I regard them with a stony expression as I lean on the old shack.

They notice me and quickly disengage themselves, gasping and fidgetting with their clothes as if to cleanse their indecensies from the already polluted air. Katherine looks at me and groans, exasperatedly running her hands through her hair.

Austin, her "romantic interest" of the moment, looks at me with feigned disbelief.

"What the hell is your brother doing out of his cell?" says Austin mockingly.

Katherine looks embarrassed and irritated all at once. "I don't know! Lucian-why aren't you with Henry? What-what do you want?"

Austin looks at me with distaste, while I give the same mirrored expression back. I'm feeling a little sadistic today, so I decide to reach down for my lucky knife that I keep hidden in my boot.

I pull the knife out and flick it open, putting my finger on the sharp point of the blade, drawing blood in the process. I carelessly flip it in the air and catch it, with relative ease.

The atmosphere immediately turns grim, Katherine has a worried expression plastered on her face.

Austin's smile disappears and he quickly wipes his nose with his hand, clenching his fists while exchanging glances between Katherine and I. "I'll see you later, Kat."

Austin briskly walks away, eyes regarding both my blade and I. Katherine looks at me with disgust and prepares to walk past me to the house.

I quickly put my blade back in my boot and walk in front of her. She purses her lips and tries to walk around me but I grab her arm.

"What the hell? Let go of me!" she yells.

"Not until you promise to stop screwing around with those pretty-boy, pricks from the Merchant department."

Katherine attempts to struggle from my grasp but I grab her arm more forcefully. She glances at me angrily, "Let go, damn it!"

I ignore her childish protests. "I'm going to consider that a promise. Start acting like a woman, or I'll cut your dresses into pieces and burn them to ashes. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Let me go!" she screams.

I release my grip and forcefully push her down to the ground. She looks at me with a frightened but angered expression. She quickly gets up and runs back toward the Seam. "I'm telling father!" she hollers.

_Father? I don't believe I recall who this might be._

I make my way past the abandoned shack and head over to the road leading to the town square. It's a long walk, but it gives me time to crush unnecessary memories, or think about the Quell.

The Quell is supposed to be a way for the Capitol to show every District just how cruel they can be; it's a Games with a catch. When Cyrus first informed me of the Quell a few weeks prior, I was concerned.

I had planned on volunteering for the Games; it was a promise I made to myself. But it seems I had to work a little extra in order to get the votes I needed. It seems I made the job for everyone in this District much easier to be honest. If I hadn't become such an outspoken terror to the district, no one would have known who to pick. District 12 is notorious for "afterthought tributes". Tributes who would sooner accept a lashing and a life of homelessness than joining the Games.

_That will not be happening this year._

No-this year I will make sure to leave a mark. If I'm going in there, I want everyone to know who Lucian Drake is. I want everyone to see the monster. I will be the most destructive and ruthless force the Arena has ever seen. It doesn't matter if I'm skinny, nor does it matter that I won't be extroverted. I'm not doing this for them, I'm doing this for me.

_To satisfy my desires._

I had walked farther than I had expected, almost nearing the cobblestone streets. I see the cluster of buildings that make up the Merchant area of District 12. I could make out the Justice Building in the distance, a few clothing shops, a baked goods shop, a flower shop; just some of things that I could never afford.

I weave my way through some buildings and start walking through the Town Square. There are many people out right now. I can see some Peacekeepers setting up the stage for the Reapings and children playing tag in the streets-not a care in the world.

I do have a destination. I left early for a reason; I can already see my favorite bench, shaded by the flower shop. I come here during the day to observe people; to relax, to distance myself-from myself really.

As I walk through the center of the District, I hear hushed whispers from several adults around the street.

"There's the monster right there…don't look at him!" One of the men says in a hoarse whisper.

I glance to the left and overhear some men talking about their votes.

One of the bigger men chuckles, "Yeah, I voted for that nut-case, uh what's his name…ah…Lucy or something like that?"

"Speak of the devil. Don't look now but that 'Lucy' kid is standing right over there…looking at us", a bearded man says.

I continue to hold my glance, feeling the slightest urge to take my blade out and cut out their voice-boxes. I clench my fists and squint my eyes. It takes most of my strength to walk forward again, ignoring the laughs directed my way.

"I placed my vote for that weird girl… Galla-Is it? Yeah, Galla. She does nothing for the District. Never talks, always wearing dark clothing, tried to talk to the chick, but she's like, anti-social or something. Better off dead in my opinion," I hear from behind me.

The voices sound very familiar…

"Hey! You! Dude, isn't it that kid you said who threatened you earlier?" says an older voice.

The voices catch up to me; they belong to Austin and his group of imbeciles. His older brother appears to be walking with them. The group walks past me, with Austin shooting me a pathetic attempt for an intimidating glare, while the rest of his friends chuckle.

I begin walking to my bench when I'm practically thrown against the wall. A boy towers over me, typical Merchant boy. He's got the boyish looks and the healthy looking hair, even his facial hair looks trimmed.

I assume this is Austin's older brother. He's pinning me against the wall and staring at me with what I assume to be anger.

_Hit me. Go ahead, I feel nothing._

"I'm Benjamin. I'm the brother of the kid you threatened earlier…and I'm just here to give you some advice."

He forcefully pushes me against the wall again and I just give him an empty stare.

"You threaten my brother again, and I'll break you in half!" he yells in my face.

His breath smells of alcohol and coal dust.

_Nothing but a petty drunk._

"Alright", I hollowly say.

"Alright? Good. Hope you get Reaped, fuckin' weirdo."

He gives me one last shove, and then runs over to join his imbecile friends, flaunting his masculinity and all.

Then I start to shake. It isn't noticeable yet, but if I leave myself untreated, I will shake harder. And the more I shake, the more my actions become uncontrollable.

_I need those pills._

I brush myself off and stiffly walk over and sit on my bench. I pull out a small, leather, black book from my jacket and open it.

It's Alistair's journal. Alistair had written in a journal throughout the Games detailing everything he saw and everything he did. The Capitol agreed to send it to us in exchange for some valuables of ours. This book contains mostly unfinished pages, and there are a few pages encrusted in copper stains…with what I can only assume to be blood. The first hundred or so describe the 7th Hunger Games arena, and a few pages describe the fatalities he inflicted on Tributes. The book is chilling, because it was written during the Games itself as it happened-but it's essential to learn from. I plan on finishing Alistair's tale, with mine own.

I shakily flip to a page, and begin to read.

_Entry 13_

_She looked so scared._

_But I had to do it, I had to win._

_Her name was Anna._

_Only 12 years old._

_She liked me._

_She trusted me._

_It was a dreary day._

_We had made an alliance yesterday,_

_She saved me from that Career boy,_

_So I promised her my protection…_

_And I gave her my strength,_

_Would I bring her doom?_

_I did not want to._

_But I realized it was time._

_As we walked through the cliffs,_

_I could hear the waterfall…_

_It would drown out her screams…_

_I had to do it._

_I tapped her on the shoulder,_

_Even if we were friends,_

_I just had to win._

_For my family._

_Her family would forgive me…right?_

_I raised my blade,_

_And pushed my regrets aside…_

"What are you reading?" says a small voice.

Startled, I drop the book and glance up quickly. It's…wait. I don't know who this girl is. I've never seen this girl-even when I'd thought I'd observed everyone. She has hair like mine, Seam look. She's sitting on the same bench, looking at the scenery.

But-I've never seen this girl in the Seam. "Hel-hello. You startled me, your very quiet."

She shrugs her shoulders and continues to stare forward.

My hands begin to shake…much more noticeably. How could she have snuck on me like that? Who does she think she is? I feel the slightest urge to teach her a lesson…to show her why I don't want to be bothered.

_No-not now. I can wait._

"It's a gloomy day, awfully depressing for a Reaping," she says subtly.

I nod, and try to focus on calming my arms from shaking.

_Damn it Cyrus._

She's still talking? I assumed she would have thought I was withdrawn. She's rambling on about the Quell now. She's wondering who will leave.

_Who is this girl?_

_Looks about 10 or something._

I glance over at her and she's staring at me; I inwardly jump. Her eyes are a stormy gray, like most Seam children…but there's something about them I can't quite place.

_I do not like this girl._

She looks at me like she's awaiting an answer. "I'm sorry, I wasn't…I wasn't listening. Could you repeat that?" I mutter.

She's moving her mouth again but I can't hear her…what the hell? My heart beat is too loud. She looks at me strangely.

_I'm strange? I can't read her. I don't…I don't understand._

"Why are you talking to me?" I shakily ask.

She smiles at me with those discomforting gray eyes, "Monsters need friends too".

I shake more noticeably now, my thoughts are disoriented, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

Something about this girl…maybe I should get rid of her…no one would know…right?

_I need to leave._

I briskly walk over to the stage, feeling troubled. Peacekeepers and more children are gathering near the center, some children are getting their fingers pricked.

As I walk towards the crowd, I glance at the bench, attempting to see the girl's face again.

She was gone.

* * *

I walk over to get my finger pricked by one of the assistants, still troubled by my encounter with that…girl. I don't who she was or what she wanted, but she frightened me-and nothing frightens me.

I am still shaking, quite noticeably now and I'm trying everything in my power to control it. It's been 3 days since my last pill, and Cyrus usually brings me a new bottle every week. It's a hard job for him, but he does it because he has faith I can overcome this…disorder. I don't know what else to call it really.

It's usually difficult on Reaping days when it comes to my "cure". Cyrus is busy taking morning shifts or setting up the stage. He earns his living being a Peacekeeper; and smuggles my "cure" from his weekly visits to the Capitol. It's risky, but it's much appreciated…and necessary for everyone's survival.

_Without that medicine…_

I shiver again and attempt to brush unnecessary thoughts out of my head. I walk to my age group, ignoring all the glances and whispers directed my way.

_I wish I could destroy them now…my own little game…_

I clench my fists and walk more stiffly towards the 16 year old age group, focusing my thoughts on a blue ball in my head.

_Focus on the ball…it's blue…right? Yes, the ball is blue…isn't the ball pretty? Such a beautiful ball of energy…such vibrant blue…and…_

The microphone makes a loud screeching sound and booms several times; I realize that the Reapings have started. The mayor speaks and welcomes everyone for this year's Quell. He gives his usual long speech, so I take the time to focus on the ball to control my shaking.

_Alright…you have time. The ball…yes…the blue and vibrant ball…make it a sphere…make it bigger…a bright, big, blue ball of energy._

This technique keeps me sane in times where I don't have my cure with me…it keeps me busy. The big, meaty fool of a mayor is rambling on now about something or another, who knows what…

I glance around my vicinity and stare at all the 16 year olds. They are silent…not a peep or sound is being made from any of the crowd. A few children are twiddling with their fingers or closing their eyes, trying to cope with today. Most children seem to be calm and collected…perhaps because they know they won't be going.

_Pathetic children, I will be representing their District and this is the respect I get? I ought to smack each and every one of them…teach them some respect…_

I clench my fists again and stare at the stage, closing my eyes as tight as possible while breathing in and out ever so slowly.

_The ball is so blue…so vibrant…focus on the ball. Now it's turning purple…yes now it's a violet. So beautiful…_

My thoughts are interrupted by a rather annoying and high pitched voice which could only belong to one person…

Karina Hellina, the ridiculous and over joyous escort with more air than matter in her head. I am quite surprised, this year she's looking _somewhat _normal…at least her face appears to be so.

Her face isn't over-caked in makeup but you could tell she spent too much time rosy-ing up her cheeks. Her hair is silver and curly, while she wears that stupid glittery dress that she appears to be obsessed with, she wore the damn thing 3 years in a row.

"Well, well! We have quite a special Reapings this year now don't we?" she gives a disgusting and fake looking smile which makes me cringe in annoyance.

The Capitol tries so hard to be what they're not. Who are they trying to impress? The woman looks like she's constipated of some sort, with her face attempting to stretch farther than it can when she smiles and gives her obnoxious giggles.

"As you all know by now, this year's games will be a wondrous and memorable one at that! I don't know about any of you, but I am absolutely thrilled for the Quarter Quell!" she announces again in her shrill and annoying voice.

Is she attempting to be happy? I cannot read her expressions, they're just too unbelievable. Even the children near me are running their hands through their face with annoyance.

"Alright! Let's get started shall we?" she says while heading over to a small black box, a ridiculous bounce in her step, once again proving she's blank in the head.

She opens the small black box ever so slowly…for what reason is beyond me. I grimace, still trying to lessen my shaking, now focusing more on handling my impatience.

She takes out two fancy looking envelopes, one saying "Male" and "Female" in gilded lettering.

"Several weeks ago, you all voted for the lucky individuals who would be honorably representing your District! These lucky children will be participating in the first Quarter Quell! Isn't it wonderful?" she giddily says, eyeing the envelopes like an obese child would eye sugar.

She tucks one envelope under her arm and holds the "Female" envelope within her grasp, now tearing it open in a slow and painstaking manner.

"This young woman received the most votes to leave this year! Representing female tribute of District 12...Galla Cinder!" she says again with a giddy voice.

The crowd is dead silent once again and I glance over to the female section. I see a small and thin girl cloaked in midnight garments shove through some children in her path, she's walking stiffly to the stage, shoulders hunched and dark eyes hidden behind a veil of raven-black hair.

She doesn't appear to be crying, rather she looks almost irritated, as if she had just gotten into an argument of some sort. She looks pathetic and weak at first glance, and it doesn't help that she looks like a twig about to snap in half at any moments notice.

Her domineering and strong attitude seems to make up for it; her face appears strong and steady as she's on stage. She has her eyes focused on a specific person in the audience…to who is beyond me. I try to search the crowd to see where her line of vision connects to, but it gets lost somewhere in the boy's section. I see her scan the audience once more, while the escort opens the boy's envelope.

_It's time. All these years of planning, everything I've done to get here…_

My shaking lessens during this period of time, shorted out by my anxiousness. I take a deep breathe and steady myself.

"For the boys! Chosen by the District to represent this year…Lucian Drake!"

_Stupid woman didn't even pronounce my name correctly._

The first thing I hear is an abrupt cheer coming through the older boy's section, and I see a few of the boys in my age group sigh with relief.

I smirk and slowly and confidently make my way towards the stage, the entire crowd silent once more. Several children whisper to each other, and I thought I even heard the word "monster" thrown around here and there.

I am not scared, there is no reason to be scared-I've trained myself for this moment my entire young life. I have the mental strength I need. The need to destroy…

I take careful steps up the stage and stand by my district partner. I glance at all the children, the cowards that I would be leaving for good.

I fixate my stormy eyes upon some adults hanging around near the sidelines, drinking and smiling, looking proud of who they've sent.

I see Katherine trying to whisper to Austin through the crowd, smiling and completely oblivious to her flesh and blood about to be sent off to die.

_The hell if I care, I wanted to leave the bastards anyway._

My shaking begins again, and I feel my entire body tense up. Everyone is probably staring at me like the monster I am. I ignore them, and I ignore the shaking. I turn to my district partner and see her looking at the mayor now, who's giving another short speech of some sort.

She looks tense as well, deep in thought and definitely fuming beneath the surface. She's quite impressionable despite her attempt at trying to hide. I tap her on the arm and she jumps, looking both cautious and irritated at my interruption.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Lucian Drake," I introduce hollowly.

She takes me in slowly, pools of forest green eyeing me with both confusion and curiosity, "Pleasure," she mutters and shakes my hand with a hint of caution.

_She's a strong girl, that I can tell._

I look forward once more and focus on settling my shaking.

_The ball is turning red…and it's cracking…falling into pieces._

Shit.

I begin to fidget, my heart beat getting louder again, my nervous system screaming for the pill I need. I swallow, but my mouth is so dry.

_The entire District, crumbling into pieces. The ground rumbles, and the Giants awaken from their forest havens. As they walk, the earth shakes. They raise their hammers and strike the earth, children tumble. The ground opens up, and kingdoms crumble._

_Bodies are fallen, and fires rage. The only sound being stone striking stone, the rocks and earth being strewn this way and that as the hammer crashes. I sit upon my throne and stare at the chaos and destruction, my eyes looking upon the once life filled streets, now being blanketed as dark snow falls-ashes to ashes._

My breathing is labored and it takes a considerable amount of strength to calm myself-to readjust my thoughts…only until Cyrus comes to see me. Please end this nonsense; not a single damned soul cares for the rules nor for the instructions.

My saving grace arrives when the Peacekeepers arrive and lead me to the Justice Building.

* * *

_Nothing to lose…everything to gain…everything._

My shaking hasn't stopped, and it gets much worse as soon as I'm practically thrown in the velvet lined room in the Justice Building. I'm told to wait for any visitors…but nobody's coming to visit…not a single damned person.

I glance around the fancy room; I see and expensive looking sofa and some chairs right in the middle, while the walls of the room are a deep maroon, lines with paintings and vases of red roses.

_Red…everything is red…_

I walk over to the exquisite sofa and flop down on it, feeling both giddy and anxious to leave. I cannot cease the urge to laugh…I just can't help it. I laugh, lightly at first. But then my laughter turns into full blown chuckles of madness. I cannot stop, because I know I've been successful! Everything I've done to get here!

_It's all me! I sent myself here!_

I laugh at the redness of the room, I laugh at everything that has and will happen. My brilliance goes unmatched.

Red…red…red everywhere, the Capitol must really want to shove down our throats the purpose of this color.

_They're training us to see blood._

I laugh again, the shaking I can't control thrown in with my laughing to make me sound demented. But I really don't care, because no one is coming…I'm going into the Arena the monster I truly am.

At the same moment, the door of the Justice Building bursts open while a large Peacekeeper escorts a man…rather roughly, into the room.

"You got five minutes! That's it!" says the large guard, pushing the smaller man.

"I know that!" yells Cyrus with annoyance, brushing off his clothing.

_About damn time._

Cyrus sees me and sighs, running his hand through his grimy hair. He walks over slowly, audibly breathing deeply and trying to catch his breath.

His eyes show weariness and a great deal of pain, while under his right eye rests a long scar, revealing a man who's been through much in his life. Whatever Cyrus has done in the past is a mystery, I know only the kindness that he's always shown me, the willingness to help a monster like me.

Cyrus flops down on a chair next to the couch and gives me one of those long hard looks, usually accompanied by a long speech or lecture of some sort.

_I don't have time for this nonsense._

I sit up and reach my open hand towards him and give my signature smirk, "Just give me the pills, Doc."

"Quiet down, buffoon! The whole damned District might hear you!" he whispers hoarsely.

He attempts to hold back a grin but inevitably fails; even he can't escape my charm. "You know, this may be the last time I'll ever do this-giving you pills and all."

I nod slowly, knowing that Cyrus needs a moment to realize how huge this moment really is. If I could cry, I would have…but I've all but forgotten how to feel any emotion. So I just let myself shake, not even trying to hide my symptoms in his presence. If anyone knows me, it's Cyrus. Even with my expertise at lying, he always knows when I'm messing with him. He can see right through me, and he's the only one I'll allow to do that.

Cyrus takes his face in his hands and sighs again, when he looks up at me I can see his eyes glistening but he still retains his strong demeanor; it's a trait of his.

I'm shaking more and more, and now it's noticeable enough that Cyrus is broken from his sentimental stupor and eyes me with worry, "Look at you kid, you're shaking like crazy."

I beckon for the pills with my outstretched hand again and he reaches for a hidden pocket in his jacket and hands me the small white bottle-the cure I need-what I've always needed.

I hastily take the bottle and pop the cap off.

_7 pills. This will not sustain me._

"I tried to take more, Boris wasn't taking his morning bathroom break-the idiot was-you see it's-" Cyrus is cut off by my hand upon his shoulder.

"Cyrus, it's fine. It really is…you've outdone yourself-as usual. These will…do just fine," I say with an edge to my voice that I didn't particularly understand.

I quickly pop the small, blue tablet within my mouth and swallow. I take a moment to relax and lay my head back, eyes closed and heart beat significantly becoming less audible…less of an annoyance.

The pills usually take effect within a couple minutes; they're specifically engineered to do so. They calm the nervous system, replacing a damaged one with a rather…blank one, or "normal" in my terms. The effect can last from 24-72 hours, the effects work wonders but it's unpredictable.

Cyrus begins to speak again as I relax in the burst of calmness that's flooded over me. "Lucian, I just want to let you it's been my pleasure caring for you. I…I have faith in you my friend, you can do this…"

He trails off and appears to ponder his own words, as if he realizes what he's saying is completely useless.

_He's absolutely right; his efforts are useless. I don't plan to win anyway._

Cyrus puts his hand on my arm, something he's notable for and something I can never forget; he makes you feel comfortable. "Lucian, think about it! If you win…a permanent cure might be possible!"

I only nod. What else can I do? My thought barely finishes before the grumpy Peacekeeper bursts in and escorts Cyrus out of the building.

"Lucian! Win for you! Win for the cure! Farewell my friend…come bac-" Cyrus is cut off mid-shout as the door slams closed.

I stuff the bottle of pills in my boot and take out my lucky blade, examining the finely carved hilt and sharpened point.

_End it right now, jam the blade through your heart and end your cursed existence…_

"Five minutes!" says the guard again, and the door closes.

_Wait, what the hell? Who else is there?_

I see a small girl with black hair walk in, carrying…my book. It's that girl again…now I can study her…see what the hell she wants…and who the hell she is.

"I just came to return this, you left in quite a rush. You look like you spotted a ghost back there!" the girl said, handing me my book back.

I blankly took my book back, still confused as to why she would visit me or talk to me.

"Thanks," I say quietly and go back to studying my blade.

I can feel the girl's wicked looking gaze on me…studying me.

"I didn't vote for you. But I want you to know, I hope you win," she says, with an expression I can't seem to read plastered on her ghostly face.

I stare at my blade, then at the girl. I hesitantly hand her the blade, placing it tightly in her hand. "I want you to keep this, alright? Keep it safe…as a reminder of…Lucian. Lucian Drake," I say with determination.

She stares at the blade, again with a strange expression. Then she slowly looks up and grins, putting the blade in her pocket. "I'll keep it safe for you, Lucian".

I nod and continue to ponder this damned girl. She puts me on edge and I still don't like it.

"Your made for the arena, I can see it in you to win. After all, monsters need to play too," she quietly says and quietly walks towards the door to leave. She gives me one last unsettling smile and disappears through the door.

I am led to the trains in a very troubled state, still pondering the girl and my future. My blade is in safer hands…it has a history, but it must be wielded by new monsters now…

I take one final look at District 12; my prison, my hell, but my home. I've ruined it more than I can say, but I've also left a mark that can't be scratched so easily. I was never the monster I could be there…it was always calmed by the pills. My terror on District 12 was but a small act; an audition that I've passed. Now, I take the skills I've trained with, and put them to the test.

I brush away my nostalgia, and focus my thoughts on the future. I stare at the front of the train, and at my District partner, who is preoccupied with her own personal hell.

I shall take my mark to new horizons. To horizons I've only dreamed about for years.

_Finally, I go home…_

* * *

**Galla Cinder of District 12**

**By Gingerclaw**

* * *

"_I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be a shadow."_

—Sylvia Plath, _The Bell Jar_

* * *

_The clock reads, one fifty-nine as I tap my fingers impatiently on the wall. I'm in the back of the room, glancing at the clock, desperately waiting for the bell to ring. My father, who I had yet to convince I was worth his money, is turning the respectable age of thirty-two today. I had been saving up my money for today, the day I was going to buy him—or more specifically, my family—a cake. One of the decorated cakes in the baker's shop, an expensive one. My idiot brother Talon, however, does not agree with me. He says that I'll be wasting my money that I saved up for so long, throwing it away for a simple decorative cake. Hence my need for haste when the bell rings—I don't want to run into him on the way to the bakers'._

Brrriiiingg!

_There it is. The bell. I grab my jacket and run outside, shuffling through the kids around me. Some give me odd looks, but most simply ignore me. I wear black for that reason: it's easy to blend in with my surroundings. Most people pass me by without a second glance._

_Apparently not Talon._

_He is standing outside the school, arms folded. I glare at him. He smirks, and I shake my fist as I near him._

"_Talon, you _idiot!_" I exclaim. "I thought you said you were staying after today! I was going to get that cake ..."_

"_Now, Gal," he begins, "I wouldn't want you sneaking away from me right after school. Father wouldn't like that, would he?"_

_I bite my lip. It's no use arguing with him. We always get into fights when we do, and Father always punishes afterwards. As far as he's concerned, children are a waste of time—something that might be useful in the future, but only a drain on him now. If Mother were still alive, things would be different. But ever since she died of black lung, He works in the mines all day, returning to check on us when he gets home before going out with his latest girlfriend. He hasn't remarried yet, but he says that even though children are a waste of space, a wife brings in more money._

_Besides, Talon is four years older than me. I'm only eleven, so there's a fat chance of me winning a fight with him. I sigh and begin the long walk to home, Talon at my side._

"_Talon," I say, pretending to be casual, "the bakery is that way. I thought we were buying a cake for Father ... ?"_

_He snorts. "Galla, I told you already: that cake is too expensive. We'd never afford it, and you know what Father would say."_

_I droop. I do know. But I had managed to convince myself otherwise._

"_Hey, you!" A girl of my age slaps me to get my attention. She's short and has a screwed-up piglike face. "You're getting in my way!"_

_I whirl on her, slapping her back instinctively. She's one of the Hannet kids, I can tell. Their parents had ten kids, and were expecting an eleventh. This girl, I think her name was Beth, was one of the younger five._

_She lets out a yelp-like gasp. "You _slapped_ me!"_

_I shrug, and say, "Yeah, so?"_

_She opens her mouth to call for her siblings, and I know I'm dead._

_There are five of them against the one of me ... or the two of us, if Talon decides to help._

_No one is around except them. The oldest—Simon, is it?—sneers, and begins the unpleasant banter. Their words buzz in my ears, and I glance around, looking for an escape. There is none. I clench my fists and drop down into a crouch, shifting from side to side. Sure, Talon and I have gotten into a few fights, but they're still older than me and probably more experienced._

_Soon, Simon is closing in on me. I feel Talon press against me, and I gulp. Will he take their side?_

_Then he grimaces at me and I know I'm a fool. We might have our differences, but Talon and I are still siblings. We're not enemies, even though we don't get along._

_Then Beth lands the first blow and we go into a full-blown fight._

* * *

I jerk awake. The dream was real, all too real for my liking. It was a real event, my first fight with the Hannet kids, and it reminds me that today are the Reapings—today is the day twenty-four kids will go to their doom, twenty-three dying, the last losing his or her soul to the Capitol.

I remember the announcement three months earlier as well—President Finn gave a long speech on how in "remembrance" of the dead Capitol people who perished in the Dark Days, and the pain of the decisions they had to make and all that, there would be a new policy—the Quarter Quell. Now, this didn't entirely surprise me. Aeron Finn is quite unpredictable, and after the District 4 male tribute, Moss Dorian, showed his hate during the Games, we all knew _something_ was going to happen. We didn't imagine this, though.

A few weeks ago were the votings. Every person older than twelve from every household had stood in a clump in front the Justice Building, waiting for their name to be called. When it was, they went inside and told the escort—who had arrived early—who they were voting for. She marked down the name on her clipboard and dismissed them. I had voted for Beth Hannet, the Hannet girl my age. The Hannets and the Cinders have had a long feud, ever since the Hannet kids beat me and Talon up seven years ago. I'm pretty sure they all voted for me, but hey—the Hannets are not particularly popular. There's a chance that Beth will have the most votes, and then I'll be safe. I'm eighteen; only one more Reaping where I'm eligible.

Yawning, I roll out of bed. Of course, when I leave the Reapings, I'll have to join the miners. I'm not looking forward to that. After all, that's how Mother died.

Things have changed in the years between that first fight with then Hannets and now. Father has remarried, Talon's out of the Reapings, and I have a new half-sister.

I stretch, then walk over to the pile of clothes at the foot of my rickety bed. I don't live in the Seam, which I'm glad of, but neither am I part of the merchant class. We're not rich, and Father is still a coal miner. I examine my choices for the Reapings. Gray shirt and black pants won't work today; I have to wear something nice. There—Mother's old Reaping-day dress. It's black, which I like—less chance of someone noticing me. I like to stay in the shadows. It's also long and drapy, better to hide my face and hands in.

Once I'm dressed, I knock on Talon's door. He is old enough be in the mines, being twenty-one, but he's a lazy bum and prefers to stay at home. "Talon!" I yell. "Get out of bed! Reapings today!"

I fold my arms and lean against the wall. I hear a crashing noise from within the bedroom, and the door swings open. Talon is tall, olive-skinned, and dark-haired with black eyes. His hair is messy and rumpled, and his eyes are bleary with sleep. His voice is whiny as he complains, "Come _on,_ Galla! Let me sleep! We've two hours yet!"

I slap him on the face. "Get dressed," I say, my voice hard. "Leah takes forever to get ready, you know that."

He glares at me and says, "It's your turn to take care of the brat, not mine."

I slap him once more. He's been drinking again, I can tell that from the smell on his breath, and forgetting how protective I am of our half-sister. "Don't you _dare_ call Leah a brat. I expect you ready by ten."

He snarls at me, then slams the door.

As I walk down the hallway to Leah, Sally, and Father's room, I trace the scar on my face with a long finger. Talon had put that there. In our last fight, he'd thrown Sally's favorite pot at me. My face had bled through the shoddy bandage Sally, my stepmother, had placed over the wound. Talon and I do not get on well, to say the least. Father had reprimanded us, and hit us a few times to emphasize. Then he sent Talon to his room and me to Sally for treatment.

I open the door a crack, hoping to not disturb Father. As luck would have it, he and Sally are already dressed, kissing in the corner. They've been married four years, and it's relevant that he loves her and Leah more than he ever did Mother and her children. I manage to get along with Sally, but my relationship with Father has grown more frayed. Leah, however, I love with all my heart—her cheerful manner reminds me of Mother.

Leah is sitting on her bed sleepily, evidently just awakened. I smile gently and stroke her hair. "Hey, Leah. Are you excited for the Reapings?"

She grins at me, her three-year-old smile bright. I hadn't tried to hide the truth of the Reapings from her, and raised her alongside Father and Sally to look forward to the day when Talon and I were safe from them, and dread the day when she was able to be Reaped. "Yeah! Today's the last time you're elly-figgle!"

I laugh at her word for eligible. "Come on, girl," I say lightly, my mood already improved. "Let's get you ready."

After picking a faded pink dress for her to wear, I take her to the kitchen. Father and Sally are eating breakfast, and Talon is dozing on the ground. I kick him. "Get up, you slob."

He stumbles to his feet and growls. He's wearing a tattered suit that I think belonged to Grandpa Bo. It's black with faint, thin stripes of white going down vertically and a brownish stain next to the coat pocket. I press my lips together at the suit's sorry condition, then settle Leah in a chair. Stale bread for breakfast. Yum.

When we've finished, I dust the crumbs off my dress and get ready to leave. Leah smiles cheerfully as we walk out the door and clings to my hand. I strike up a conversation with Sally as we walk to the town center. Father begins to interrogate Talon about where he was last night, and I smirk. When Father finds out he was drinking again, Talon is going to get it.

Before we reach the square, Leah stops me. "Gally," she says, "are you gonna be Repped?"

I shake my head. "I'm not going to be Reaped, Leah. I promise you."

She smiles, and we continue walking.

Soon we reach the town center. I slip between the other kids, working my way to the eighteen-year-old's section. This year, of course, things are different, but we're still divided by age.

Before the Reapings start, I make my way over to Younde. Younde is my only friend, a plump boy of my age from the merchant class. His father is the butcher. I met him when I was seven, and he was being bullied by the baker's son, a kid named Howard. I had beat Howard up, sent him home crying to his mama, and befriended Younde. I have no other friends, and Younde and I hardly talk to each other; we have only stayed friends because we have no one else to go to.

He nods to me, blue eyes solemn. "Galla," he says. "You nervous?"

I shrug. "A little. You?"

"Some."

After this short exchange, I weasel my way through the crowd to the eighteen-year-old girls section. After a mic malfunction, the mayor begins his speech. "We are here today to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of ..."

I quickly tune him out. At my first Reaping, I was so anxious that I hung on to his every word, but it gets extremely boring after seven years.

I try to catch a glimpse of Leah through the crowd, and am unsuccessful. All around me I hear people whispering, "Who did you vote for? I voted for ..."

I am satisfied to hear that my name has not been said once, but I see Beth glaring at me from across the throng.

The mayor is at last finished droning on about the Dark Days. District 12's escort, Karina Hellina, walks up to the stage. "Well, well! We have quite a special Reapings this year, don't we?"

Silence. All of us are gazing intently at the black box on a stand a few feet away. She flutters her extremely long lashes flirtatiously and giggles. "As you all know by now, this year's Games will be a wondrous and memorable one at that! I don't know about you, but I am absolutely thrilled for the Quarter Quell!"

She smiles at us again, hair flouncing, and says, "All right! Let's get started, shall we?" She walks over to the box, picks it up, and opens it extremely slowly. It's pathetic, this show of dramatics. She does it every year, drawing out the suspense. It's annoying.

She draws two envelopes out of the box. One says "male", the other "female". That's the Capitol for you—they treat us like animals, labeling us by our gender, aggressiveness, and likeliness to be killed.

"Several weeks ago, you all voted for the lucky individuals who would be honorably representing your District! These lucky children will be participating in the first Quarter Quell! Isn't it wonderful?" _No,_ I mentally say, _not at all._

As Karina slowly opens the "female" envelope—again with the dramatics—I mentally chant, _Let it be Beth. Let it be Beth. Let it be Beth, _please _..._

She draws a piece of paper out of the envelope and unfolds it. She gasps ever so slightly, and I inhale sharply. _Let it be Beth!_

"This young woman received the most votes to leave this year! Representing female tribute of District 12 ... Galla Cinder!"

The name is like a cannonball fired into my head. _Galla Cinder. That's my name. That's me. Me! She called _my_ name!_

As I numbly walk up to the stage, I feel the crowd's eyes on me. I must appear small and weak—I'm not short, but I'm not tall either. I'm skinny and black-haired, the sort of girl most would overlook in a crowd. I glare at the cameras, letting them know that though I may be from 12, I'm still a contestant in the Capitol's Games.

_The Capitol's Games._ I'm in the Games. I'm the female tribute. _Me._

When I reach the stage, I let my eyes wander. Normally, I would expect them to go to Leah ... but for some reason, I first lock eyes with Younde. He gives me a slight nod. I nod back, my expression grim. There's little chance I'll make it out of the Hunger Games alive, but there is always those few rays of hope. Younde is my first. Leah, whom I find in the crowd next, my second.

Karina Hellina is opening the boys envelope. My heartbeat quickens. Who will be my District partner? Younde? God forbid that it should be Kyle Hannet, a the youngest of his family, only first eligible last year.

I can hear the escort smack her lips as she opens the next envelope. "For the boys! Chosen by the District to represent this year … Lucian Drake!"

Lucian Drake ... the name is vaguely familiar. He's two years younger than me, and considered a "Danger to the Society" by most in 12. He's burned down buildings, terrorized the school, and trades mutilated animal carcasses with the Peacekeepers for—something. Something he needs. That means he's got a weakness.

As Lucian walks up to the stage, I can see he's shaking. Probably from fear. But still, after all he's done, who can blame the District for sending him in?

When he reaches the stage, the mayor starts talking again. I clench my fists beneath the folds of my sleeves. This is the Hannet's fault. They were the ones who threw me in the Games, they were the ones who got me a crazy District partner. Well, maybe not _them,_ but I still wouldn't be waiting to be taken to the Justice Building if it weren't for the Hannets. I would be sighing in relief that I'd finally escaped the Hunger Games, and walked home with a rare smile on my face, laughing along with Leah.

I jump as Lucian taps me on the shoulder. He is a skeleton-like child, with sunken eyes, pale skin, and black hair. His eyes are gray and disconcerting, full of a maniacal light. I bite my lip. Lucian doesn't look like much, but I bet he could come to his own in a fight. Still, I wouldn't bet on him winning the Games.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, his voice hollow as if he doesn't really mean it. "Lucian Drake."

"Pleasure," I mumble back, averting my eyes. _Yeah, it's a nice day to meet the boy who terrorized the District for half a year. While we're at it, why doesn't it rain bread and candy? We can even sing about sunshine and lollipops._

A big Peacekeeper comes and grabs my arm. I yank it away and follow to him to the Justice Building.

I sit down on the rickety chair to wait for my first visitor. The first person to rush in is Sally, Father coming at a slower pace behind him with Leah. Sally starts crying and hugging me, and for once I don't resist. When she's done, Father sits down beside me.

"Galla ... I'm sorry I didn't pay attention to you when you were younger," he begins.

I cut across his apology. "No need," I say. "I've been doing well by myself."

He nods, then clasps my shoulder. "You can do this, Galla," he says urgently. "You can make it out alive. So, you've never had any training and come from Twelve and have a personality that makes people think twice about befriending you, but you can stay in the shadows. You can make yourself a legend."

Leah has been quiet throughout this whole exchange. When Father stops speaking, she climbs up on my lap. "Galla," she says seriously, "you breaked your promise."

Those words pierce my heart. I sigh and say, "Leah, I never break my promises. I may have been Reaped, but I'm going to come back to you. I promise that."

Leah hugs me around the shoulders, and then the big Peacekeeper comes to take them away. Sally starts crying again and Leah joins in, but all I can read of Father's expression is regret. Regret that I was Reaped? Or regret that he didn't bond with me as a child?

Whichever it was, Father was gone now. Who would be my next visitor?

It was Younde. He came and sat next to me. We didn't talk, just sat in each other's company. The silence enfolded us, sheltering us from the world. When the Peacekeeper came to take him away, all he did was nod. I nodded back, then turned to wait for the next visitor.

Talon came in alone. His mouth was hanging open, his eyes wide. I get up and slap him, literally slapping some sense into him. "Stop gaping."

"But ... but Galla ... you ..." he says, lost for words.

"I was Reaped? Yes." I walk back to the chair and sit down again. "That's obvious."

He blinks several times, then closes his eyes and walks out of the room. I wait for my final goodbye.

Beth walks in with a smile plastered over her face. I rose from my seat, shaking with anger. _"You,"_ I hissed. "This is your fault."

"And who can blame me?" she sneered. "I'm sure you would have been delighted to see me go into the Arena."

I shrug slightly, then say, "True enough. Now leave, so I can brood."

She smirks, then waves in an offhand fashion. "See you on TV, Galla."

"Curse you, Beth!"

* * *

I have no more visitors. Apparently no one cares who I am, or knows. They're just glad they weren't Reaped.

The Peacekeeper escorts me to the train, where I meet Lucian again. He glances at me, then looks away. He's shaking again, ever so slightly. Maybe it isn't from fear, after all.

Karina Hellina blabs on about the Capitol and the Games as we board the train. I look back at District Twelve for the last time, a sinking feeling in my chest.

I've been Reaped for the first Quarter Quell, the most hated girl in 12. I'm not heading toward victory and fame; I'm heading toward my death.

And what a gruesome death by the worst of the Districts it will be.


	14. Crimson Floors

**__**So here is the first chapter, and let me tell you authors really stepped up their A game! Remember authors are for the most part given free range over their chapters unless an overall plot is being enacted (example Sean Armani and keeping Aleah in line). We change stuff if it's too far out of canon.

See you guys all Saturday! ^_^

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**_Bianca __Neve of District Eleven_**

**_Train Rides to the Capitol_**

**_By Johnbeerius_**

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"_I'm a chess piece. A pawn,' she said. 'I can be sacrificed, but I cannot be captured. To be captured would be the end of the game."  
__―__Paolo Bacigalupi__, __Ship Breaker_

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"Here she is, little Miss Tribute," the Peacekeeper says, lightly shoving me towards the train. I unintentionally let out a gasp. The Peacekeeper chuckles and releases his firm and meaty grip on my arm. "Good luck little Miss," the Peacekeeper mutters before leaving. I didn't really hear what he said, being way too distracted by the train, but I looked his way and flashed him a smile before quickly turning my gaze back to the train. I gasp for the second time. I cannot believe it, this thing is _huge!_It's a giant, a monster. Or maybe that's because I'm used to my midget brothers. The sound of turning gears fills the air and the door swings open. I mount the stairs and enter a spacious room. I'm instantly overwhelmed; and I thought the outside of the train was glamorous.

I look around and take in the big, cushy couches; the gold furniture and satin curtains. But soon I am interrupted by my escort, Vikus Heron. "It's amazing, isn't it?" he asks. We take another moment to take in the scene. "Well come this way, Bianca. Eric is already in the dining car. You don't have a mentor, as you well know, but we have a second escort to help us out a little. His name is Kendrick." To that statement I feel a sinking feeling. Just great, another escort. Vikus keeps on blabbering, "Though this year, hopefully we can change the no mentor dilemma if one of you wins. Then either you or Eric would be the new mentor. That way District Eleven wouldn't be the laughing stock of the Capitol. Maybe then I could get my big break." Vikus continues to talk at a million miles per hour but I'm not really paying too much attention; I'm still dreading two escorts. But as we enter the car I smile at them both. Kendrick wearily smiles back at me and Eric is stone-faced. "So what have we been doing?" Vikus asks.

"Nothing much," Kendrick says, "Eric here isn't much of a talker."

"Well, he better start being a talker, otherwise no one will sponsor him, or ally with him, or-"

"I think he'll be alright," I say firmly, eager to stop the brewing fight.

Everybody turns and looks at me curiously until Vikus starts blabbing again. "Maybe Bianca is right. He can go for the silent and strong angle!" Vikus continues blabbing and Kendrick rolls his eyes. I giggle slightly and make the crazy sign behind Vikus' back.

"Well, I'll show you to your rooms," Kendrick says. We both follow him, leaving Vikus still chattering to himself. He is still talking about angles and something about a new line of skin dye. Kendrick rolls his eyes again; muttering something about Vikus being dropped on his head as a child. "Bianca your room is first on the left and Eric your room is right next to hers. Dinner is in two hours you can do whatever you like until then." Instantly I feel guilty for judging Kendrick to be another Vikus-like Capitolite when in reality he is a good guy. But I shake the thought out of my head, that has passed and I shouldn't think about now.

Following Kendrick's instructions, I make my way to my room and open the door. Immediately I flop onto the giant bed; the feelings I had pushed back were returning. My ebony colored hair spills into my eyes but I just continue down and stuff my head into a pillow. A tsunami of negative emotions crushes me. My chest tightens, my eyes tear up and my head is weighed down by those emotions. The tears start at a slight drizzle but progress into a torrent of sobs. How can this happen? How is this humane? How can the Capitol live with themselves after killing twenty-three children a year? Why couldn't they forgive the districts for the rebellion? My thoughts turn towards my family. They all desperately want me to come home and I want to come home too. So with my seven brothers, my parents, myself, Winnie and Randy that's twelve people who desperately want me back. Ever since I was little I was always one who strived to please people. A person who thrived on appreciation. And now is not the time to stop that; I have at least twelve people I need to please.

Finally the tears stop coming; I guess I've run out. I roll over onto my other side and push my dark hair from my face. My eyes were puffy, I had a headache and surely my face must have gone from pale to red and blotchy. Eager to push back the bad feelings I try to look for the bright side of things. But I fail to find an evident one. But I'm determined to find something that would make my situation not so bleak. After awhile of pondering I come up with a happier point: the rewards for my district and my family. District Eleven is one of the poor outlying districts. And my family happened to be in the poorest part of that district thereby making us the poorest of the poor. Especially with the ten people in my family. In fact, people looked down on my parents because they had too many kids that they couldn't afford. But that would make it even better if I won; the ultimate underdog. Then I could give my family money and my district money too. I smile at the thought; we would actually be able to eat a real meal. We could get an actual house, not our pathetic two room excuse for one. Now I _need_to be able to do this. Now it wasn't just for me, it was for my family and for my district. Maybe I could do this. I have the motivation, I'm skilled with people and making friends, I can nimbly climb almost any tree and I have a deep knowledge of nature and plants. If you looked at those reasons and totally forgot that I have no weapon skill, things looked pretty good. I'm a hard worker though; maybe I can pick up a skill or two during training. My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at the door. "Come in," I cry out weakly. The door slowly creaks open and out comes Kendrick.

"Hey Bianca," Kendrick says softly, sitting down next to me. I'm still sprawled across the bed, so I quickly sit up and make some room for him. I notice that Kendrick even has a normal appearance. Which is odd for a Capitolite He is average height and weight, with normal skin and average brown hair. The only thing that seemed to have a Capitol influence was his violet eyes. But they didn't stand out too terribly. "I am so sorry," Kendrick sympathizes. He gently tucks back my dark hair from my eyes and wipes a tear from my face. Oddly, even though I have only known him for a couple of hours I let him do it. It feels good to know that someone cares for me. "So Bianca, you look like an interesting person. Go on ahead, tell me about yourself." That is the moment where I start blabbing. I start talking about my large family and their weird habits, my beloved brothers, my district, how my pale skin makes me stand out. Basically, I tell him everything about me excluding my issues with Brittney and how I got voted into these wretched games. But unfortunately, eventually those topics get brought up. "Bianca, if you don't mind me asking, how did such a pretty, outgoing and considerate girl get voted into the Hunger Games?" Now here comes the inevitable, awkwardly touchy subject. I sigh and begin to tell him about Brittney's popularity and how she hates me and influenced most of the district to vote for me and my death. The talk goes on longer than expected but it felt good to tell someone about my distress. And by the end of the answer we have both broken out into tears. I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes; embarrassed to have someone see me cry like that. But Kendrick was such a good listener and I couldn't help myself from showing my true feelings.

I clear my throat, eager to change the dreary subject to something more cheerful. "This train is amazing."

Kendrick chuckles, "I thought you would say that, the tributes always do."

"Everything is just so big and so glamorous. Just look at the size of this bed! And the train is just so huge and gorgeous. I can barely feel it moving, but when I look out the window I see things blowing by at high speed."

I nod slowly and Kendrick rubs his temples, obviously stressed. "Well, if you like everything on this train so far just wait until you eat the food. It is absolutely amazing. Oh, and the showers are great too."

"I think I'll soon agree."

Kendrick pats my knee and smiles. "Well, there is about an hour until dinner. And I will see you then." Then with a nod Kendrick gets up and leaves the room. I flop back down and close my eyes.

* * *

"Bianca," trills Vikus, "it's time to eat." I feel my stomach rumble, dinner would be welcome. I roll out of bed and quickly pad down the hallway following my nose to the delicious scent of food. When I walk in I gasp for what seems like the billionth time today. But I can't help it; all these Capitol things are just so huge and luxurious. In a flash, I jump into a big plush seat and am about to dive into the giant salad when Vikus grabs my arm. "Ah, ah, ah Bianca. You must have manners. We have to wait until Kendrick and Eric arrive. Also next time use utensils, it's not like you're starving."

Just then Kendrick and Eric walk in. "Actually Vikus, Bianca and Eric have both experienced extreme hunger. So next time I wouldn't judge what they do," Kendrick says. I beam at Kendrick; there he is again backing us up. Once again, he is proving my first impression of him wrong. Eric quickly takes a seat and Kendrick follows. With a reluctant nod, Vikus signals for us to dig in. I scoop up a huge bite and instantly my taste buds and stomach are rewarded. The flavors burst and the textures are so new and exciting. I scarf down the salad and am brought some meat. That is quickly inhaled and is followed by some more courses. I eat and eat until my small stomach can't hold anymore food. I look around and see Eric still eating rapidly and our escorts eating slowly; only a little bit of each course. I turn to the right and see a Peacekeeper watching us from the door.

"Kendrick. What is the Peacekeeper doing here?" I ask.

Kendrick leans over and in a low voice answers my question. "We've had some trouble with some of the less fortunate Districts before. Usually with District ten and down. Some tributes have been known to escape and cause trouble so the Capitol has called for extra help on these trains." I nod in response to his answer and quickly forget about the Peacekeeper. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Soon everyone else finishes and leaves the room. I stay, planning on finding something to distract my mind from the morbid thoughts tied to the Hunger Games. After a bit of pondering I come up with a brilliant idea to distract me; hard work. It's what always distracted me at home. Instantly, I hop up and begin to clear the table. I gather all the plates and wipe the remaining food bits from the table cloth. I reach for the last plate to clean and am met by an Avox. Her face looks frightened; probably by Vikus' mess.

"Don't worry," I tell her, "I'll just get the rest of this." Her eyes almost bug out of her head and she opens her mouth into an O shape but no sound comes out. Her brows quickly form into a scowl and she lunges at me, trying to take the plates from my hands. Confused, I shift to the right and she misses the plates and instead shoves my arm. This causes me to lose my grip on the many plates and they tumble out of my grasp. They seem to fall in slow motion before shattering on the floor. The sickly sound is harmonized with a door banging open. Through the door an enraged Peacekeeper launches out. I whip around and barely dodge his charging form. He blasts by me and tackles the Avox. He comes back to his feet with the Avox in a headlock. He points a dark, wicked looking gun at her head. I scream bloody murder; the very sound the Avox couldn't make. "What are you doing?" I scream at the Peacekeeper. "She did nothing wrong! Get away!"

The door bangs open another time but instead of a Peacekeeper, Eric and Kendrick barge in. The Peacekeepers smiles bloodthirstily and digs the gun deeper into the Avox's head. His eyes sparkle with malice and his teeth seem jagged and as sharp as knives. But that was the last straw for me; I launch myself at him, ready to fight. But some big, muscled arms catch me and haul me up off my feet. I scream and try to pry myself out of their grip. I wiggle around and see that it is Eric's big, dark arms restraining me. But I keep on trying to escape. "We need to help her!" I scream.

"There is nothing we can do," shouts Kendrick.

"This one has made too many mistakes. But no worries, this will be her last," snarls the Peacekeeper as he pulls the trigger. I scream louder than I ever thought possible as a bullet enters her brain. Gore explodes everywhere and I bury my head into Eric's chest; trying to escape the horrid image. But even though my eyes were clenched tight, the image still burns in my brain. Finally, I stop struggling in Eric's grasp. Instead I just let him carry my sobbing form away from the disaster.

I feel myself being set down and I flop to the floor and bury my head in my knees. Eric sits down next to me but I just cry until no tears will come out. "That was all my fault, she didn't deserve that. No one deserves that."

Eric awkwardly shifts before speaking in a low, gruff voice. "It wasn't your fault, you just didn't know. That Peacekeeper was just looking for a chance to fight. They all do, I know from experience."

I nod slowly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That I struggled when you tried to restrain me, that I started that mess, about your parents and that you have to be in these games," I blurt out.

Eric's stone-face flickers for a moment, his eyes flash with many emotions before he regains his composure. He sinks his head, "me too."

I feel his sorrow and don't like it. No one deserves to have such heavy emotions as that. "I think you can make it home. You're strong and smart and I hope you can make it home," I tell him.

He looks at me thoughtfully but it is a couple of moments until he speaks. "Thank you Bianca. You're a good kid. Don't let these games change you." He gives me a small smile before getting up and returning to his room. I feel myself smiling back. Maybe I'm better off than before.


	15. Crippling Memories

Sorry this is up later than normal, my net was out. What's everyone think so far?

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**The Remake Center**

**Alexis Spurling, District 7**

**by Hazelshade12**

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_"Memories are what warm you up from the inside. But they're also what tear you apart." ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore_

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"ALEXIS SPURLING! COME OUT HERE THIS INSTANT! WE'RE GOING TO BE LATE!"

I hide under the thousands of sheets that make up my capitol bed, as Amerida's voices booms through the large wooden door of my room. I don't want to go out there yet. I'm not ready to face her wrath yet, and knowing her, it's not going to be pretty.

Let me take you back a little bit. As soon as the train left District 7, Amerida slapped me in the face, and called me an embarrassment for what happened at the reaping, and called the experience what happened when you mixed red eyebrows with green eye shadow. After that, I rushed to my room, and took a nap in the bed, so soft that I sinked through it. Afterward I went into the bathroom and took a shower. We almost never had running water back in District 7, so a shower was a luxury. All the exotic shampoos and moisturizers felt so strange, that it made me miss the simplicity if District 7. Even though I was scared of almost everything there, and almost everybody hated me, it still was home.

Afterward, my escort was banging on my door, telling me I was late for dinner. The table was filled with delicious smells, and suddenly, I remembered my hunger, and I couldn't wait to start eating. However, Dae gave me a knife, and a strange, four pronged instrument known as the fork, and told me to cut the food with the knife, and to stab the food with the fork thing, and to put it in my mouth. I refused to do so. What if I cut my finger instead of my ridiculously large steak, or what if I stabbed something human with my fork? Eventually, I was allowed to eat with my hands, to Amerida's disdain.

The best thing about the Capitol so far is Jonas. It's not that... I like him; it's just that... he's the opposite of what I was expecting from him. You'd think that the mayor's son would be just as big of an asshole as his father, but he turned out to be the opposite. He's fun and friendly, and the most jerkish thing I've seen him do is sarcasm. He can diffuse the tension in any situation. Even when he'd break something, he'd laugh and say something along the lines of "That cup had it out for me, I swear." He had the ability to make me smile, something I'd never done in two years.

The constant screaming from the hall pulls me out of my thoughts. Eventually, once my ears start bleeding, I climbed out of my mountain of bed sheets, and I walk towards the door. As soon as I exit my room, I am greeted by a slap on the face. "There you are!" my escort shrieks. "Dae left with Jonas ten minutes ago! Now, thanks to you, I am late for the sale at Zago's. All they will have left is ugly, topaz, loafers!"

"S-s-sorry," I whisper. "It-it won't happen again."

"It better not," she growls, as she turns around, and walks briskly towards the elevator, and I have no choose but to follow her. Once the elevator has fallen seven stories, she takes my hand, and drags me across the street to the remake center. Once we are inside, she pulls me to the corner of the room. "I want no funny business today," she growls. "If I get one report of you misbehaving, I will do what I do to clothing I don't want anymore."

I'm not sure what she means by that, but she's probably implying that she'll throw me in the trash. I quickly nod my head.

"Good," she says. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a look to update. With that, she strides through the automatic doors, and attempts to dash to her sale, before tripping over her heels. I walk over to the front desk. "A-Alexis Sp-Spurling," I stammer.

The peacekeeper studies a sheet of paper, before looking at me. "Follow me. He leads me down a long hallway. The labels on the doors stating the District and gender of the tribute go forward through the districts, males on the left, females on the right. Finally, we reach a door labeled DISTRICT SEVEN FEMALE. The peacekeeper shuts the door behind me as I enter, and locks it so I don't escape.

The room is plain, containing nothing but a mirror, bed, and a desk full of supplies. I lie down on the cot, and begin to worry about what they will do to me. Would they shave my head and strip me of my identity, or worse, turn me into a Capitol freak. A knock on my door breaks through my thought barrier.

"Helloooo," says a woman's voice. "We're your prep team. Can you open the door? I forgot my key."

"Allow me," a male voice says. A few moments later, the trio steps in.

My prep team is just like the ones I see on TV, a trio of victims to the ridiculous styles of the Capitol. The first woman, the one that first asked how to open the door is very... pink. In fact she's entirely pink, like she bathed in pink chemicals. Her hair sticks up high above her head, and the ends curve into the center, making her hair shaped like a heart.

The second woman's hair is a midnight blue that contains about 50 pigtails. Many of her pigtails fall into her face, covering her silver eyes. Her skin is the same color as her eyes, and is unnaturally shiny, like she had an expensive treatment done right before she came here.

The male is even worse. His orange, green, and purple hair is combed back, which actually looks like a normal hairstyle. To add more to the ridiculousness factor, he has diamond surgically fastened into his skin, making him look like a walking, rainbow crystal.

"Hi," the pink woman replies. "I'm Pipi, that's Tao," she points at the shiny woman, "and this is... um... uh... Ha..."

"Hangal," the male replies. "Right," Pipi says. "So we're here to make you look pretty and stuff," Tao says. "So take off your dress so we can get started," I feel awkward being naked in front of three Capitol weirdoes, but I do as she says.

"Excellent," Pipi says once I'm done. "Except you are still wearing that silly necklace around your neck." I look down, and I notice that I am still wearing Marcus's medal. I nearly forgot about it, I was wearing it for so long, it felt like a part of me. "You won't need this silly thing anymore," she says, taking it off my neck, and flinging it behind her.

"Ma-Marcus!" I yell. "Don't worry, you'll get it back later," she says. "So Tao, what do we do first?"

"Let's see," Tao says, reading a large instruction manual. "The first step is to divide jobs between the three of us. I'll do skin, Hangal can do hair, and Pipi can do make-up." Hangal and Pipi agree to their positions, and grab the shampoo and blush respectively. "So the first step to treating a tribute's skin is to shave him/her, using wax," Tao says, as she walks over to the table. "Where is it again?"

"Wait; is it that strip of shiny stuff?" Pipi asks.

"Yes."

"Oh, I though it was my new gloss. No wonder it wasn't working."

Tao sighs, "We'll are going to have to find something else to use instead," she groans. She digs through the pile of supplies until she finds a small, silver object with a rough blade and a cord in the back. "This is what's called a razor," she explains. "It is an object also used for the removal of hair, though less effective than wax." She plugs the cord into the wall and the blade immediately comes to life, the blade spinning back and forth, while making a menacing sound, and the familiar sense of panic returns.

"No, no pl-please don't use that on me." I whimper.

"Relax," Tao reassures. "I know how to use this thing. Besides, I haven't messed up while using it yet."

"Yeah, this is her first time," Pipi adds. Tao glares at her, and then brings the blade closer to my leg. I continue simpering and fidgeting until I stick out my leg and kick the razor out of Tao's silver hand. The razor flies into the air and lands in Tao's hair. The blade ravages her scalp, and purple ponytails fall out of her head as she grabs the razor and unplugs it. "My hair! What did she do to my hair?"

While Tao examines herself in the mirror, I grab a cloak off the desk and bolt out the door. "She's escaping!" Pipi screams. "Get her!"

I run down the hallway as fast as I can towards the front door. As I reach the pair of District 4 doors, I feel somebody pick me up, and I see Hangal's colorful skin. I scream for him to put me down, but he doesn't stop, and he drops me back down on the bed, holding onto my arms and legs so I don't escape again.

"Hangal, restrain her while I try to shave her again." Hangal nods as the silver stylist plugs the razor back in and she brings it back towards my legs and makes clean strokes with the razor as small hairs fall off. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Just a few more strokes," Tao tells me in a strained voice, clearly exhausted from the ordeal. It turns out Tao was a natural with the razor, and never scratched me once during the two hours she used it. Despite this, the fear never left me while she was using it, but Hangal kept a surprising strong hold on me, probably due to all the large crystals in his arms.

"There, we're done! Finally!" Tao exclaims, before collapsing on the concrete floor.

"I'm done too," Pipi says. Hangal releases his grip on me, and looks at my face. The pink stylist has added blush, lip gloss, eye shadow, and many other strange substances on me. While to my prep team this would look like a normal amount, this felt weird to me.

"Excellent," Hangal replies. "You may work on combing her hair, and I will add a tan to her skin as Tao… is unable to do that at the moment."

"Okie dokie lokie!" Pipi agrees. She grabs a brush from the desk and starts pulling on my ginger hair. "This is a disaster!" she exclaims. "When was the last time you combed it?"

"We-we didn't own a brush,"

Pipi gasps. "You didn't own a brush?" Meaning you haven't combed it in forever? What will we do now? I know!" Pipi runs towards the desk and grabs two blades with purple handles on top connected in the middle. "These are called skissors," Pipi explains to me.

"Actually their called scissors," Hangal corrects.

"No, I'm pretty sure their called skissors. Anyway, I'm going to use these to cut your hair so it will be less messy."

The sense of fear returns. Even though the scissors are tiny, she might repeatedly miss my hair with them and cut my flesh instead, eventually causing me to look like my brother's corpse. "No, no, please don't use them. It-it's fine, you don't have to use them."

"I agree with Miss Spurling," Hangal adds. "I'm sure that nobody it the crowd will notice tonight."

"Relax Hangie, I'm a professional person. I can do this." I jerk my head away as she tries to cut my hair, but the scissors make contact, giving me a short, uneven haircut.

"You idiot!" Hangal yells. "She looks horrible now!"

"I was only trying to he-"

"Allow me." Hangal grabs a bunch of fake hair extensions from the desk and sticks it in my hair. "That's better."

Pipi pouts about her work being ruined as Tao comes to. "What did I miss?"

"There you go!' You're finally done!" The prep team just finished making the finishing touches on me. I was relieved to finally be finished with seeing knifes today. "I think Michel is finally ready to see-"

Pipi is interrupted by a knocking on the door. "Speak of the devil. He's here!"

My prep team waves their goodbyes as the exit and a different man enters. He is surprisingly… normal, at least by capitol standards. His hair is an emerald green, but that is the only noticeable alteration. He has green eyes, tan skin, and things you may find on an ordinary man from the districts.

"Greetings Miss Spurling, he introduces himself. " My name is Michel Halles. I heard you have a problem with knifes."

"How-how did you know?"

"I saw your reaping and I figured it may be a reason for your reaction. I was originally assigned to the District 9 male, but I traded with your original stylist so I could, make sure you had the ability to win, because let's face it. Your fear will make it difficult for you to survive the bloodbath."

His words sting hard, but I know that he speaks the truth. All the other tributes looked bigger and stronger than I am, and far more ruthless. "Are you going to help me?"

"Yes but for now we must eat. Could you push the button on the side of the bed for me? I'll be right back." Michel exits the room, and I notice a small red button on the side of the bed. I push it and a small table springs out of it. Michel reenters the room, pushing a large cart filled with dishes. Michel grabs the first item off the cart: a large steak. As soon as he sets it in front of me, I pick it up and take a bite. "Now wait a minute Alexis." I look at him in horror as he sets a knife and a fork in front of me. "I said I'd help you with your problem, and your help starts right now."

"I-I can't," I stammer. "M-my brother was murdered in front of me, and... and I don't want to touch one of them because, because I know what they do to people."

"Everybody knows what they do to people! That doesn't stop people from eating with a knife."

"What if I cut myself?"

"It's not that sharp."

"What if I drop my fork and it stabs something?"

"Like that's ever going to happen."

"What if-"

"Will you just eat your steak already?" I tremble as he says these words. "Look, I get that I might seem harsh to you, but all I am doing is showing you some tough love. Feel free to eat however you feel like when you eat with your friends back at the training center, but when you eat here, then eat like you don't have a traumatic childhood memory."

I feel my stomach rumble again, and Michel's stern expression tells me he will not give in as soon as the others did. Finally, I pick up the knife and bring it down on my food. Even though I did it without injury, it still didn't feel right, not after what I had seen. Marcus's death replayed in my mind over and over again. I wanted to stop, but if I did, Michel will just show me more "tough love," as he would call it. I started to eat faster, just to get it over with. Michel and I didn't talk for most of the meal, which I was okay with.

After an hour of countless dishes that all required a knife to eat, I finish the last course. Michel stacks the dishes back on the cart, pushes the button on the bed, and pushes the cart back into the hallway. "Very good work Alexis," Michel compliments. "What were your thoughts on the meal?"

"Painful," I answer.

Michel sighs. "At least it's an improvement. Anyways, we've got a little over an hour until the opening ceremony begins, so we should stop our idle chat and get back to work. He walks over to desk and opens a cabinet underneath the top shelf. Inside is a dark green dress covered with vines and leaves. I blink in confusion. After he tried to make use a knife all dinner he's making me a tree?

"I wanted to make you a lumberjack," Michel says, who apparently has the ability to read minds. "However, you're District partner's stylist thought lumberjacks we're ugly and plain, and wanted district 7 to be something pretty like a tree. She also thought your district partner was a girl." I barely suppress giggles at the last one.

I can picture Jonas's reaction to his outfit. He'd look awkwardly down at his skirt and say something along the lines of "Oh how I enjoy the feeling of air blowing between my legs."

"I'll admit, it's a good dress," Michel continues. "If it gets you sponsors its good enough I guess. Anyway, let's get this on you."

An hour later, I am in my dress. "Just smile, wave, and pretend you want to be here," Michel advices me. I nod and begin to make my way towards the door. As I make my way towards it, I notice my token, still on the floor after all of this time. However, Michel reaches it before I do.

"I'm sorry Alexis," he tells me. "I can't give this back to you right now. It brings back too many bad memories, and I can't have you thinking about that in this crucial time."


	16. A Talk With a Mentor

Sorry this chapter is a day late-it's all my fault. I'm not feeling well, and my cat had to go to after hours vet because he was coughing. He's going to be okay-but on the way home we came up on a drunk driving accident. The girl tried to run from the police, so we had to stop and help and stuff. But anyways, by the tiem we got home I just had to relax and then go to sleep. It was emotionally exhausting and I have to take my dog tomorrow for an appointment because she's sick. So bear with me.

On the back of this, I accidentally put last chapter up first. This one-the Capitol rooms should have went up first. I'll be swapping order with next update. Sorry about that! I'm going to lay down and try to get stuff on track. Again terribly sorry!

Next update will be Friday instead of Thursday. And Saturday's update will be on Sunday. Then we'll be back on schedule with update on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.

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Edrick Quillheart

Capitol Rooms

District 6 by ThunderstruckMV15

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_WE wear the mask that grins and lies, _  
_ It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— _  
_ This debt we pay to human guile; _  
_ With torn and bleeding hearts we smile._

_We Wear the Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar_

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_It's the dead of night in the field where I trudge through the thick, tall lemongrass. Fog swirls around my jumbled head, worsening my perception. I see clearer for a moment, and then the vertigo hits me again like stepping from an air conditioned building into a heat wave. I tumble, fall, get back up, fall again. It seems impossible to find balance in this twisted, demented field._

_The lemongrass slaps my face over and over again. Swaying from side to side, I break through the crepuscular grass blocking my view. I stumble into an opening. The field is still fog bound and lurid, but I can see a few more feet in front of me._

_I walk onwards sluggishly. The cold, autumn air nips at my skin. Now shivering and biting my lip to soften the ricochet of pain that rockets through my body every time my teeth smash together again, I stop._

_A stench suddenly materializes and is nearly unbearable. A rotting carcass? No. An animal's feces? No. The stench is outstandingly potent, yet indescribable. Nausea rears its ugly head and forces itself upon me._

_The fog clears. I'm standing in a wide opening with soft soil beneath my feet. I'm completely alone, yet I feel a presence. A dark presence. The cold air seems as if it was getting even colder, freezing my body, forcing it into a hypothermic state. I see movement._

_What seems like a shadow-encrusted figure moves towards me from fifty feet in the distance, directly in front of me. The stench grows stronger, as if that's even possible. The figure moves closer, still unidentifiable. Closer, and closer. The gloomy, masked stranger is becoming clearer, more defined, as it moves closer. Moves. The figure does not walk. It moves. Floats. I start to panic._

_Aly. The figure is Aly. She and I stand face to face. No. More like face to writhing body - the stench has maximized. I find myself rolling around in the dirt, desperately trying to hold back vomit, but then the stench disappears. As if it was never there in the first place. I take a huge breath of fresh air, finally free of that horrid odor, and stand back up again to see Aly's bright, white smile._

_Looking at Aly arises a nostalgic emotion in me. She is beautiful. However, she seems too beautiful. Her skin is flawless, and it looks as if it's glowing. Her hair seems to shine with the brightness of a thousand suns. Her eyes seem vivid beyond any human capability. She_seems _fake._

_As if on cue, Aly's smile fades. An angry look reappears on her face in the place of the once angelic glow. Panic reinstates itself inside me. I take a few brisk steps backwards._

_Aly's head whips around in brash movement as if she's possessed by something evil. Something demonic. Her facial muscles twitch and thrash repeatedly and spasmastically. At lightning speed, it changes. It... morphs._

_Dark swirls of black, smoky material obstruct parts of her face. She looks skyward for an instant, the black smoke shooting in all directions. Her - its - face comes back changed._

_In the place of Aly's former figure was a dark, cloaked, glowing version of Hornslund._

_I scream at the top of my lungs._

I wake up cold and sweaty from my torturous nightmare. Hornsland has officially gotten into my head. He's the one who put me here, and now I can't help but think it was destiny.

With the arena looming, I feel as if I'm slowly losing control of my thoughts. Normal teenagers don't have to worry about being tossed into an arena with twenty-three others plotting to kill you in the most gruesome, painful way possible. With my clothes clinging to my body from sweating in my sleep, I slide off of the lofted bed I had been sleeping on.

Shaking still from my nightmarish experience, I pace the small car of the train, the buildings of the Capitol whizzing by at break-neck speeds. It's nearly dark out now, a completely different setting than when I had fallen asleep during mid-afternoon. I have arrived at the place where I will most likely meet my untimely demise at the age of seventeen. I become light headed and sit down in one of the booths beside my bed, my hands cupped in my face, I slowly run them through my hair.

What has become of my life? Why did I have to be hated by the entire district solely for pursuing a dream? Why did I have to be ripped away from the one friend I had just a day after I had met her? It wasn't fair. My entire life was not fair to me. '_Quit whining Edrick, it is what it is_' I tell myself, but it's no use. My sorrowful eye sheds a single tear of frustration.

'_Frustration is a dangerous thing_' I recall from my Shaw Lionels book, the part where it spoke of sociopathology, '_Frustration transforms into anger; anger transforms into hatred; and finally, hatred transforms into bloodlust._'

The train is coming to a stop and I see Drake Harlem, my escort, peering through the car's window, his royal blue skin and his elephant tusk nose piercings emphasized by the fluorescent white light directly above his head. He opens the door after fiddling with the handle for a good five seconds.

"Edrick, man, it's time to get going. Your fans are outside, and we must not dissapoint them!" says Drake, holding out his hand expecting me to place my own hand in it. I simply stare at it, not wanting to touch that clammy-looking, blue skin of his.

In one swift movement, Drake takes my hand before I can react and tries to pull me along with him, but cannot.

"Let go of my hand, please," I say quietly looking down at his miniscule feet.

Reluctantly, Drake lets go, and I follow him to the exit.

There are crowds on either side of me as I walk towards the tribute's tower. All of them, screaming, revolting painted up dolls that the Capitol's repulsive fashion style has swallowed up. We enter the double doors that lead inside the building, finally free of the cacophony of ear-piercing screams.

The District 6 room is quite large. It's mainly open concept with glass walls around the few smaller portions that are not attached to the rest of the room.

There is a gigantic mahogany dining table lit with candles and already set with plates and utensils, but there is no food at the moment. The only indulgences available are on a small silver platter in the far corner of the room. Drake immediately strolls over to it and scowls at the assorted meats in disgust.

"They still haven't accommodated to my vegetarianism," says Drake, shaking his head, "Seriously man, who do I have to cuss out to get some veggies in here?" Throwing up his arms, Drake traipses over to one of the purple velvet armchairs in the living room.

The living room itself is popping with colour. From the purple, brushed velvet armchairs to the lemon yellow walls to the very darkly varnished hardwood floors. Also in the living room is a unnecessarily large flat-screen television on which I assume we will be watching the training scores on as well as the recap of our interviews.

Mine and Londyn's bedrooms are off to the side. An actual solid wall rather than just a glass one is separating the two beds. I suppose you must have some kind of privacy. Behind the either bed, however, is another glass wall with a door.

I slip past the headboard of the monstrous bed and make my way through the door to find a large stone balcony that lies six stories from the ground below.

There are two massive pillars that are slightly reminiscent of the pillars that the Roman civilization had crafted all the way back in the first millennium. The stone railing in between the two pillars looked like it was hand-chiseled and masterfully manipulated into rock-hard curls and spirals that stretched across the entire balcony.

Looking out into the Capitol, I can see white buildings and skyscrapers as far as the horizon and as lofty as the clouds, lit up by giant spotlights on the ground. Most of the architectural masterpieces have been sculpted into various three-dimensional prisms and forms.

I hear faint footsteps behind me.

Scarlett Everly, mine and Londyn's mentor for this year has quietly snuck up beside me as I surveyed the urban landscape of the Capitol.

Scarlett was just sixteen years old, and already a mentor for the Hunger Games. She had won the year before Aleah as a fourteen year old, and was called upon as the youngest mentor ever in history of the games. Well, technically, she was fifteen when she had won, her birthday passing in while she was in the arena.

She and I had met on the train as I was sitting alone shortly after our departure.

_"So you're Edrick, eh?" she started as she sat down across from me in a booth._

_Scarlett's shoulder length brown hair swung from side to side just after she had sat down. Having the shy nature I did, I couldn't find anything to say back to her._

_"I was scared too on my trip to the Capitol, but all you can really do is weather the storm. You know, put up and shut up."_

_'_That was helpful_,' I thought sarcastically._

_"How come you keep staring at your feet? You mute or something?"_

_I stared up at her, annoyed, "I'm not mute," was my stern retort._

_"So I heard you don't like your parents very much," she changed the subject suddenly, "You want to tell me a little about that?"_

_I looked at her for a second, processing what she had just said. I put my face into my hands and rubbed until I thought of something to say. My parents were a tender subject for me._

_"I'm not sure I should really go into detail about that," I said skittishly._

_"Don't worry about it, Edrick. I don't talk to my parents either. At least I'll be able to relate."_

_"I don't think you'll be able to relate."_

_"Oh really? Why's that?"_

_"Doesn't matter."_

_"Yes it does, Edrick. I swear to god, if you don't go into the arena with a clear head, you'll die in the bloodbath for sure. I think you'd be able to trust me on that. What I need you to do, is I need you to tell me what it is about your parents that you hate so much."_

_I took in a long, deep breath. The mild air that danced in through the slightly open window beside me was refreshing, but hardly calming. I let my cheeks puff out as I exhaled._

_"Fine," I mutter, "But not now. Tonight. Once we get there."_

Now, with the night sky in the Capitol above, Scarlett's sharp, green eyes look into mine. The bright light-emitting diode lights on the balcony reflect off of the polished marble of her eyes, making them look even more beady than they already were. I know what she wants. She wants me to spill my guts and tell her all about my childhood and early adolescence that I had spent with my parents. As badly as I want to keep to myself, I know it has to be done.

Scarlett's little speech on the train had convinced me.

I lie on my bed that night, looking up at the sky. Yes, the sky. The ceiling above my head is also made of glass made to create a panoramic view of the Capitol skies. I find myself nodding off and waking back up, lost in the darkening sky above me.

Every once and a while, I catch a glimpse of dark material near the corner of my room, the same material that surrounded the creature's face in the nightmare I'd had on the train. It's almost like someone wearing a cape is standing there, and then decides to run, allowing the cape to whip and lick the air briefly before disappearing behind the wall. I tell myself that my mind is playing tricks on me, but I can't help but remain weary of my surroundings. Then again, I can't help but close my eyes.

_Bump._

My eyes shoot open again. I could have sworn I had just heard a shoulder hit the wall directly around the corner of my bedroom.

_Bump._

I froze. It was definitely there that time. I decide that this bumping noise needs to be checked out. There are a couple of lights still on in the room, which means someone could still be awake while the rest are deep in their slumber.

I slip out of my bed, and into the soft slippers that the Capitol room had provided me with. From where I am, the corner of the wall is about ten feet away.

I coast along the wall slowly, keeping my wits about me. My mind is in a half-dream, half-reality state.

I remember seeing the flicker of the darkly coloured material. In hindsight, it seemed pixelized. As if it was there, but fading. Disappearing. It was hard to explain.

_Bump._

I slowly move closer to the corner of the wall, heeding the warning that was the black cape licking the air like a small flame in a firepit.

_Bump._

The sound was moving, seeming like it was on the other side of the wall now. Not just around the corner that I was now peering around with my left eye. I heard the bumping noise again, but this time it didn't stop there. If the noise was a shoulder hitting the wall, it was now sliding along it, getting louder. Moving towards me. I would soon know the identity of this bumping noise.

Suddenly, a body throws itself from its hiding place behind the wall, startling me wide awake.

"Oops, silly me," says Londyn Aureole, the other tribute from District 6.

I have no recollection of any contact whatsoever with Londyn prior to the reaping. Apparently, she's blind. It occurs to me what monsters the people who voted for us were. They voted for me, the only person with the balls to stand up to Colby Hornslund, and then they go ahead and vote a blind girl into the games too. Honestly, what kind of heartless animals were they? No time to worry about that now.

"I fall down a lot, sorry," Londyn says innocently.

"Were – uh – were you bumping into the wall just now?"

"Yes, I was. Can't help myself, you know, with my being blind and all."

"You can't, can you?" I reply with a suspicious twang.

Sure, Londyn is blind, but I can't help but think she's trying to subject a little pathos on the people she deals with. Especially competitors in the game. Her first victim? Me. But I know better.

It's like Shaw Lionels says in his book, '_One will sometimes harness the power of psychology and sociology to manipulate others into doing what they want. One example of this powerful tool is called_pathos_. Now, pathos has a very specific definition and effect. It is simply forcing one to feel extreme pity and or sympathy for another. Once the user of pathos has their hook in another's brain, shall we say, they can manipulate one's thoughts to their own desire._'

The words of that last sentence echo in my mind for an instant. _They can manipulate one's thoughts to their own desire. To their own desire. Desire._

"No, I can't, it's quite a difficult life actually," she continued.

"Londyn."

"Yes, Edrick?"

"Cut the act."

"Excuse me?"

"I know you're blind. But I also know an act when I see one, Londyn. If there's one thing that bugs me, that me makes me less timid just for that moment, it's when people perceive me as stupid, decievable,_primative_," I say firmly to her, spitting out the last word as if it was the most disgusting, revolting curse word there was. Because it was the word that got me voted into the Hunger Games.

"Edrick?"

"What, Londyn?"

"You're right. I am playing this up. You're the first person to challenge that. But if I have any shot at surviving even the bloodbath, it's my only hope. I realize some of those career tributes are ruthless, and would kill me regardless of my disability, but the others, they're a different story. The others were never trained to kill in cold blood, so I figured, who would murder a poor, defenseless blind girl, let alone anyone else. Right?"

"I guess you make a good point," I say, '_A really good point. What if she manages to_allign_with the careers?'_I think to myself,_'Londyn. This girl could actually be a problem, believe it or not._'

Ladies and gentleman, the games have begun.

_A cloaked figure moves slowly along the long corridor. The dark material encasing its sleek body slithers like a snake, like it was black smoke that resides from a fire recently extinguished. The creature's sinister intentions replay in its mind. It cackles silently, as it has reached the large double doors on which there is a large number 6 on it._

Sleep is not coming to me, I can't stop thinking about the things I had told Scarlett on the balcony that evening. Things I had not even told Aly. Looking up at the ceiling, through the glass at the night sky, I close my eyes in hopes of falling asleep.

_The dark material has returned. In long strips of black, silky bands, the smoky substance makes its way up the stairs and revolves at the foot of my bed. More and more bands of the material join the circular movement. Suddenly, they shoot outwards and in their place is Aly, cloaked in the black silk._

_I sit up in my bed, looking at Aly. Slowly she raises a hand, and moves a finger, motioning for me to come to her._

_Sliding out of my bed, I feel as if I wouldn't even have to move towards her willingly. Sheer force was gravitating me towards her. Even if I resisted, it would be to no avail._

_She speaks, "The games are among us now Edrick. I came to you to make sure you knew what you were doing. You have to have a plan Edrick, ally with the right people. Do what you have to do to win. Remember, I'll be watching back home. Please don't make me watch my best friend die."_

_"I told you I was going to win when we said goodbye to each other. I intend to stay true to that," I reply._

_She pauses for a moment, as if in deep thought. A part of the black silk she was dressed in slipped, revealing her bare shoulder, covered only by a thin, red strap._

_"Edrick," she reaches out and touches my bare chest, moving ever so slightly closer to me, "I need you to do something once you're in the arena."_

_"What do you want me to do?"_

_The silk covering she's wearing slipped down her other shoulder, slowly sliding down her smooth, curved body. It made its way down, around her hips, dropping to the ground. All that's left underneath is her red undergarments._

_Her hand still on my chest, she walked even closer to me, pushing me back around the corner of the bed, shoving me onto it with force I didn't know she possessed._

_"You already showed that you have the capability to be ruthless enough to win the games. At the reaping, you got angry at the cheering crowd. You despised them, you wanted to make them suffer. Edrick, you wanted to kill them. Now, there are going to be a lot of dangerous people in the arena, not that I need to remind you; but, there is one person that you have to kill before they get too powerful, before they get too much momentum."_

_"And who is that?"_

_"It's someone who won't be easy to kill. You have to gain their trust first, because they will be ready for any attacks from other single tributes, or even other alliances. She can't be expecting it."_

_Aly crawls up onto the bed, beginning at the foot and moving slowly towards me._

_"Edrick, it's not Londyn. No matter how dangerous everyone else seems, you must kill Anya Powers," she and I are inches away from each other now, "If you do, you shall be greatly rewarded," she finishes coldly, kissing me lightly and briefly on the lips._

_I sit up and get in her face this time._

_"There's only one problem with that," I say, Aly's expression falters for a moment, "_Youlie_."_

_Hornslund's voice curses loudly as the black silk bands whip around Aly's body, covering it once again and only disbanding for a moment to reveal Hornslund's livid expression._

The black bands vaporise, and disappear into oblivion in a million pixels.

It's silent once again, except for one faint whisper.

_'I will return.'_


	17. The Sadness of a Bell

**OH HEY GUYS. This is Belle (Fitting for a chapter titled "The Sadness of a Bell," am I right?). Sorry, I kind of disappeared for a while because band camp is starting and I have to deal with tons of summer homework and I still need to find time to sleep and eat andanadnadskfj. Also, I was in Canada for a while. Oops. SORRY.  
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**Nina has been sick, and in addition to that, she has to nurse a sick cat back to health. Things are all pretty crazy around here.  
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**APOLOGIES. APOLOGIES EVERYWHERE.  
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**Here's an amazing chapter to make up for it!  
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**ALSOOOO, in the words of Nina, we'll be hopping back on track with the schedule next Tuesday. Life happens, and sometimes it sucks, but we just need to deal with it as best as we can. Sometimes it prohibits us from updating on time, every time. Thanks for sticking with us!  
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**Roulla Saney of District Four ****(Age 16)**  


**By Jayfish  
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_"It is only when you refuse to give in with all your heart that you begin to transcend your humanity."_

— Alucard, _Hellsing_

* * *

My stylist and I stand stiffly in the elevator, our shoulders brushing but not touching. Someone has provided a full-length mirror in the three walls of the elevator that do not have doors, and I find myself entranced by my own reflection. I am generally not much of a gazer, but this elaborate costume could mean life or death for me in the arena. The sponsors want something interesting, and if I am not interesting, their gazes will pass over me.

I have never been in the background before in my life. My mother always made sure I was front and center, in the middle of a crowd of people who never really let up. I suspect that the Capitol citizens will be even more demanding than the people back home in District Four. They want everything from me—my life, my blood, my flesh.

I shift a little so I can see myself in the mirror, and I smile. _They ask, and I deliver._

The fabric is thin—so thin that I am afraid to move too violently, for fear of tearing it completely. I have no idea how they managed it, but the fabric shows a pattern of scales, and they look so _real._Blue-green and rippling, and I can almost taste the seawater that would be clinging to these scales if they had ever been attached to a living, breathing organism.

The body of the dress has no neckline—the beautiful scales continue all the way to my chin in the front and my hair in the back, and all the way down to my ankles. The dress conforms to my body, but I do not have much in the way of womanly curves and so I feel comfortable in this second skin. The sleeves of the dress are made of a different fabric completely; this one is see-through, and a pale blue. On the back of each of my arms, the fabric folds into what looks like fins, standing stiffly to attention.

The crowning glory of the costume is the frill. My prep team was quite fussy putting it in, and now I can understand their meticulousness. It starts from the top of my head, held up by clips hidden by my hair. It is a deep blue and utterly imposing, and it travels from my crown to the base of my spine, getting smaller as it goes.

In short, I am a sea serpent of legend; writhing, tremulous, and graceful as the ocean itself. My stylist has even demanded green hair for the occasion, and not on him; they dyed my hair a deep green. Belladonna, one third of my prep team, has promised me that the dye will wash out as soon as I take a shower. I fervently hope that this is true, or I will look quite foolish in training tomorrow.

Thinking about training forces me to think about the other tributes. I am already so grateful that our elevator was entirely unoccupied; there might have been another tribute waiting inside. If they were a Career, it might've been alright, but if they had been from one of the outlying districts, or District Three, I do not know what I would have said to them. _Hello, my name is Roulla Saney. In a few short days, I will be doing my best to brutally murder you. I apologize in advance for any inconveniences that might cause you._

Actually, now that I think about it, I enjoy that speech. It is succinct and elegant, and sums up the Hunger Games as an inconvenience, which should help comfort some of the other tributes. I am not supposed to be comforting the competition, but it seems a bit cruel not to. After all, I am a Career, born and bred for this. What are they? Some poor little human like me, minus the skill with throwing knives and the supposedly unswerving confidence.

The elevator gives me the pretty little 'ding', and I step out and into another corridor. I can already hear the chatter of voices and the occasional whinny, so I know we are close. Thallium puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me towards the big doors at the end of the hall. At the close contact, I stiffen. _It's alright,_I try to say. _He touched you when you put on your costume, remember?_

But this is different, somehow personal. "Thallium," I say. "Please. Stop."

He realizes what I mean and pulls back his hand, looking confused. "What? Why?"

We have made it to the doors. They swing open with a touch from my hand, and I half-step into the confusing mess that is the stables. "Well," I say, in response to Thallium's second question. "We don't know each other very well."

He raises an eyebrow. "Sweetheart," he says. "That's not how things work here."

I am stunned.

I have been preparing for this all of my life, and yet I forgot a vital, key, _integral_part about life in the Capitol. _The rules have changed._

What do I know about the Capitol? They love to have parties, and to talk. They treat love and lust as if it were nothing, and if I am to survive here, I have to do the same. _They have no qualms about casual intimacy. I can't have any qualms about casual intimacy._

Still, my stomach is rolling as I walk with Thallium towards the chariot I know is for District Four. The horses are a pure white, and one of them knickers at my approach. I don't see Con anywhere; I'm not quite sure where he could be. Knowing Con, he could be anywhere. The image of Con tricking the District Twelve tributes into buying oil for their chariot wheels comes to mind.

As soon I think of it, I frown. _No, no, do not be an idiot, Roulla._I have made a deadly assumption about the District Twelve tributes. I have written them off as gullible and stupid, and I haven't seen either of them yet. Just because they come from the poorest, most pathetic district in Panem does not mean that they are poor and pathetic themselves. _Look at_me. _I was raised by a mother who adheres completely to the rules, and what do I turn out to be? I end up liking women, and I am not supposed to like women._

It is difficult to not beat myself up about that. Liking girls… I'm not sure when I realized I was different. I put it off for as long as I could, that much is certain. But in the end, Yiri… beautiful Yiri, she got to me. Every toss of that silky hair, every time she called my name with shiny lips… How could I not fall in love with her?

Sometimes I hate myself. _Freak, freak, freak,_I mutter, and try to conjure up images of myself kissing Mathem, passion coursing through my veins. And it has never yet worked. Men do not attract me, not at all. Most women don't attract me either, honestly. It was Yiri I fell for.

I am thinking about Yiri again. _Stop that. She'll never love me, and attachments in the Games are tantamount to death. I really don't want to die._

Waiting for Con is boring, but I would like to have some company besides the mostly-silent Thallium. Despite Con's strange actions at the train station, he has managed to regain my alliance. He brought me Capitol chocolate, actually, and told me with very beautiful words how sorry he was to have been so forward. He said that he wanted to be my ally and nothing more, and if he insinuated anything else, he was extremely apologetic.

It might have been an act. I do know that it was an attempt to regain my trust. In any event, Con's persuasive abilities worked their magic on me. I could no longer be angry with him. By the end of the train ride, I considered him an ally. Not a trusted ally, but I will not trust any of my allies. I have seen too many Hunger Games play out to be able to completely trust the other Careers.

Where could he be? There is the possibility that Con has not arrived yet. I am just about to step into the chariot to wait for Con when I hear his familiar voice behind me. "Roulla!"

I turn around. "Your costume is quite flattering," I tell him, for the sake of politeness. Con knows that I am not interested in him. This comment seems safe.

Con's outfit makes me smirk a bit in spite of myself. He is shirtless, with a sort of rippling cloth wrapped securely around his hips. In his hand he holds a gleaming silver trident, and around his forehead is a circlet made from scales that look like the ones on my dress. It appears as though he is meant to be the fisherman who will bring me down; the symbolism is almost disturbing, given the context of the situation.

Con winks. "You don't look too bad yourself." His face twitches suddenly, as though remembering our interactions at the train station. "Not that Ah'm trying to hit on you or anything," he says quickly, holding up his hands. "Ah was just trying…"

"Yes, I know," I say. "I was trying too."

Con relaxes visibly. "Right," he says. "Well. Ah think Thallium and Borodin want to go over a couple of last-minute things with us. We should get in the chariot, Ah guess."

"Right," I say, and blink when Con holds out his hand.

"Ah'll help you up," he says, giving me a smile that could probably make any other girl swoon. _How gentlemanly,_I think, smirking a bit as I place my hand in his. We move in sync until we stand at the lip of the chariot, and then he allows me to lean on him as I hop into the vehicle. A moment later and Con had jumped inside as well. Thallium, from where he is lounging near the back of the chariot, only blinks, but Borodin claps his hands excitedly.

"So cute!" he gushes. "You two make the _sexiest_couple, you know!"

I grimace. "Con and I do not have any romantic attachment," I tell Borodin. He only laughs.

"That's what they always say!" he sings. "I remember that Alex was always telling me about how he and his wife weren't going at it on the night before launch, but I know the truth!" It takes me a moment to realize that he is referring to last year's female tribute, Elia Zervakos. I wince; that comment was totally tasteless. Remembering Thallium's early comment about Capitol customs, I don't say anything, but I wish I could.

"Moving on," Thallium says briskly. "Borodin and I are here to go over your plan for the chariot rides. I don't suppose the two of you have any angles?"

"Ah'm just going to wave to the crowd," says Con. "They'll love me."

"I am not going to be doing that," I tell Thallium. "I am trying to be deadly."

Thallium sighs. "You two are going to look too different," he says.

"You should make out instead!" Borodin squeals.

"Nah," says Con. "Ah'm out of Roulla's league." He smiles at me to remind me that he's on my side.

Thallium appears to be thinking. "Alright," he says. "Roulla, you can still be deadly, but I want you to at least nod at the crowd a bit. And Con, tone it down with the waving. Don't go too overboard."

Con looks aghast. "What? Me? Ah would never."

I do not want to spoil my angle by nodding, but if there is anyone who can be cold and amiable at the same time, it is me. "Alright," I tell Thallium. "I will nod at the crowd."

Borodin pouts. "Can't you guys at least cuddle or something?"

This time, it is Thallium who saves the day. "No, Borodin. If they cuddled, they'd look retarded." The use of _retarded_in that sentence was offensive to people who are legitimately retarded (there were a few back home) but it might be some sort of saying here. Besides, Thallium has already warned me that commenting on Capitol standards is bad. I must constantly remind myself not to do it.

"Alright," Thallium says, snagging Borodin's shoulder. "I think we're done here. The rides themselves aren't going to be starting for a few more minutes. Just stay in your chariots and try not to mess up your costumes, alright?" He smiles wanly. "Good luck. I'm sure the audience will love you."

"Thank you," I say quietly, and smile as Thallium drags a protesting Borodin away.

I turn to see Con aiming his silver trident at my stomach. I raise an eyebrow as he jabs it at me lightly. "Hey! Look, everybody!" he exclaims. "Ah just brought me down a sea serpent!" He snickers, poking me again.

"Hilarious," I grumble. "You ought to be on television, Mr. Rossencourte."

"Ah _am_gonna be on television," Con reminds me. "Now stop calling me 'Mister.' It sounds stupid." He makes a face.

If he would prefer me call him Con, I have no problem with that. "Very well, Con," I say. "You _will_attempt to keep your waving and carrying on to a minimum?"

Con thinks it over. "Here's an idea," he says. "If you smile at the crowd _one_time, Ah won't go overboard."

"Are you _blackmailing_me, Con?"

"It isn't blackmailing. It's more like good business." He gives me a cheeky grin.

I somehow manage to resist the urge to hit myself in the forehead. "You are being highly irritating, you know," I point out. "It would not hurt you to tone it down."

"It wouldn't hurt _you_to smile once in a while." His face goes disturbingly blank for a few moments, his eyes chilly. "See?" he says, his face going back to its cheerful expression. "That's what you look like, Roulla."

I did not like the cold emptiness on his face, or the blackness of his eyes. Do I really look like that? For the Games, it is useful to be so blank, but… I _always_look like that? Yiri's expression was generally placid as well, but I could often see mirth and joy dancing in her dark eyes. Was my facial expression the reason she didn't want me?

Con registers my lack of response. "Um," he says. "Did Ah hurt your feelings?"

I force myself to shake my head. "No," I say quickly. "My feelings were entirely unaffected by your previous comment." I think he can tell that I am lying, judging from the way I turn from him and focus on the stable doors, but he doesn't call me out on it.

I realize with a jolt that I have tuned Con out at just the right time, because the stable doors are opening. We are treated to the roar as the Capitol citizens welcome us to a world like nothing we've experienced before. The blood-red District One chariot rumbles forward. The male is dressed in a bright red shirt and dark pants. The shirt and pants are torn in several places, and instead of seeing skin, I see tiny glittering rubies shaped like droplets of blood. The girl, wearing a red dress, has similar tears filled with the blood-rubies. The costume confuses me at first, but as I watch the boy slashes at the girl with a dagger covered in rubies, and she goes for the tears on his chest with her similarly ruby-covered nails. I realize that they are staging a mock battle in their chariot, the rubies meant to represent blood. I raise my eyebrow as the girl squeezes the boy's forearm a bit _too_hard, her sharpened nails breaking his skin. Perhaps it isn't such a mock battle at all, at least to them…

Con looks at them admiringly. "Good idea," he says. "Ah wish our stylists had thought of that."

I shrug. "I suppose we could still try it," I say. "I think those two would have our heads, though."

Con chuckles. "They probably would," he says. We watch in silence as District Two's chariot clatters into the tumult of the outside world. The girl is grinning at the audience already, and waving. Occasionally she makes a finger gun and "shoots" the audience. The Capitol people play along, tumbling to the ground when she points her finger gun at them. They are eating up her act.

The boy, on the other hand, is clutching the rim of his chariot and staring straight ahead, stonily. The audience probably appreciates his aura of danger and darkness, because I can hear people screaming his name. "Jet! Jet Matthews!" _I will have to pull off the same angle in a moment,_I remind myself.

The both of them are wearing dark clothing covered in a layer of grey dust probably meant to represent stone. There are sharp pieces of no doubt fake rock jutting from their shoulders and smaller ones from their calves. All of their visible skin has been painted to resemble the cold surface of a statue. Even their hair has been dyed grey, no doubt with the same dye my hair has been dyed with. The hair is stiff, unmoving, and it adds to the statuesque image. I like it. According to Con, I look like that.

The chariot of District Three is next. The metal has been coated with something reflective, because the evening lights of the Capitol shimmer off it in strange patterns. The girl I noted from before is staring straight ahead, ignoring the audience. _I feel as though I am not the only one playing the deadly angle…_Her costume is quite interesting, and I lean forward to get a look. Wires have been painted all over her body, resembling snake-like silver vines. She is wearing a silver one-piece that reminds me of my barely-used bathing suit at home. When I catch a glimpse of her in one of the massive screens above, I have to smile at the ingenuity of her stylist. On her stomach is a screen, displaying the same images as the screens above. Right now she is reflected in her own stomach. It is quite dazzling.

Her partner has on a similar outfit, although somehow the girl captures my attention more. It is not surprising, really; girls always attract my interest much more than boys. They are just so much more pleasing to look at.

With a whinny, our white horses clatter forward, snorting as the Capitol begins to roar. I adopt a look of concentration, and adjust my posture so that my spine is erect and my eyes are dark and cold. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the screens and see a killer staring back at me, nails and teeth and tongue and heart thirsty for blood.

I am startled away from my magnified image by a jab in the ribs from Con. "Smile," he hisses, from between grinning teeth. The threat is implied; if I don't do it he'll start waving and jumping up and down and generally making me look foolish.

This might be Con's game, but that doesn't mean I can't play it my way. With a slow, proud gesture, I sweep my hair back and grin. My eyes are dark and wild, and my smile can only be described as psychotic. The Capitol screams.

When I drag my tongue across my bared teeth, the screams become frantic.

Con chuckles from next to me and raises his hand. He waves slowly, deliberately, letting me know that my smile counts. It may not have been the smile he was looking for, but I suppose it _did_show emotion. For a moment, I was no statue: I was a killer. Just for a moment, because I have stopped smiling now, but something tells me the people of the Capitol will remember that moment.

I am interested in seeing the other costumes, but I do not want to crane my neck and look like a fool. _I'll wait until we reach City Circle. I can absorb the costumes while I listen to the President talk._

Our horses follow a track that they must know well by now. It has become difficult to keep so perfectly still, but I do not let up. One of my hands grips the side of the chariot to prevent myself from falling. Instead of swaying to meet the occasional jolts of the track, I am rigid, and therefore at the risk of falling and meeting an embarrassing fate: death by the District Five chariot.

The chariots of the first three districts have reached City Circle and are lining up neatly in front of the President's mansion. We rumble to a stop next to the District Three chariot, and I take another glance at the girl. She is staring straight ahead at the balcony where the President is waving. _Perhaps she is one of the few who will actually pay attention to the speech. I am still going to keep tabs on her, though…_

I glance to the right as the District Five chariot arrives. Both tributes are wearing black body suits, with a jagged white line shaped like a lightning bolt traveling from their left hips to their right shoulders, and then looping back to their hips. The sleeves of the suits look as if they are made of wires, and the both of them have spiked hair that sticks out from their heads frenetically, as though they have been shocked. Although I enjoy the hair, I do not find the costume itself very interesting and soon find myself searching out District Six.

I have to look into one of the giant screens to see District Six. The boy has a white lab coat on, which sweeps down to his feet. There is really nothing else that is special about his costume, and my eyes flick to the girl, and then I find that my knees are beginning to tremble.

_Why is Yiri in the District Six chariot?_

I shake my head the tiniest bit and I realize that it is _not_Yiri standing there. The girl's poise is exactly the same as Yiri's, as is her build. They are the same height. They have the same _face._

It is the most disturbing thing I have seen in my life.

The girl is wearing a nurse's outfit with a short skirt and a ton of makeup, looking as though it is designed to show off her obvious good health. Despite that, she seems jittery somehow, on edge, and she holds onto the rim of the chariot as if at any moment she will come tumbling out. I force myself to look away from her, and take several deep breaths. _That isn't Yiri,_I remind myself. _I do not have any emotional attachments to this girl. I am going to look away from her now and forget about her._

Only, as I force myself to look at anyone but her, I don't think she will be leaving my mind so easily.

The deep green of the District Seven chariot catches my eye next. I am completely unsurprised when I see the two tributes wearing tree outfits. _Who would've thought?_They pose no threat to me; their costumes are nothing special. Both of them have multiple moss-colored branches sprouting from the neckline of their garments, forming an intricate pattern around their heads. I blink as my eyes travel downwards and I realize that the outfits they are wearing are _totally_the same—including the fact that the costume has a skirt, wreathed in roots. I raise an eyebrow. _They forced that poor boy into a dress? There is something very sick about Capitol fashion…_I'll admit, it didn't look like a dress from the top, but there is no mistaking the skirt. Perhaps it is meant to be a robe…? On some level, I don't want to know.

The District Eight chariot nearly breaks my composed façade. _Oh, God. This is saddening._The chariot itself has been splashed with a variety of colors. The tributes themselves have been forced into giant spools with neon thread wrapped around them. To make matters worse, gigantic fake sewing needles jut from their shoulders and spines, making the costume almost grisly. Their makeup is what nearly made me slip up. It is bright and totally ridiculous, as though their stylists just threw it at them and hoped it would stick. _It is as if their stylists actually want them to die,_I think. _I am sure that their sponsor count just dropped to zero._

The President clears his throat into the microphone. I will look at the rest of the costumes later; it is time to listen. Finn smiles and waves, looking at all the tributes in turn. I swallow as his gaze sweeps over me, and do my best to look him in the eye. _I want him to see a Victor,_I think. _Not just another tribute._

"Greetings, one and all," Finn says, "to the commencement of Panem's first ever Quarter Quell!" There is a deafening roar and thunderous applause. "I know," Finn chuckles. "I am excited as well." The jovial tone in his voice flattens. "But we must remember," he says. "Just as there is a meaning behind the Hunger Games themselves, this Quell has its own meaning. It is a reminder to the districts that, seeing as they actively chose to rebel against their loving Capitol, there are still choices for them to make. We have to make sure that they make the right ones." His smile reminds me of a snake's.

"The Hunger Games…" Finn begins, and I let the words wash over me as I stare into the giant screens. I _am_listening, but this is a speech I have heard many times before. Yes, different words were used, but the underlying meaning remains the same. _The Hunger Games keeps the peace. The Hunger Games serves as a constant reminder of the Districts' treason. The Hunger Games keeps our country together._

I let my eyes slip to the District Nine chariot as President Finn explains to us the necessity of the Hunger Games. The female's dress is see-through and filled with fluorescent lights that twinkle in the dark. It bubbles around her, making her seem small in comparison to the plastic floating about her. Her arms have been laced with thick silver bangles, and she has a silver choker clasped about her throat. The male has a similar outfit, although his plastic is form-fitting and is shaped like a suit.

District Ten's chariot is pure black, although the horses pulling it are white. The female is dressed in a leather shift, with a headband around her forehead that sprouts a multitude of feathers that cascade down her neck and stop at her shoulders. Her hair has been threaded with beads of different sizes and colors, and her makeup is simple. To her right is the male from her district. On his head rests a black hat. I vaguely remember seeing a hat in a picture book entitled _Cowboy Jones_when I was younger. Perhaps this is a… Cowboy hat? The male is shirtless, and I can see that he is wearing dark pants and a tall pair of leather boots.

The muted gold of the District Eleven chariot catches my eye next. I choke at the sight of the boy's costume. All he is wearing is a set of underpants, adorned in various fake fruits. The boy looks as though he is trying to keep his embarrassment hidden. He isn't doing too badly. His female counterpart is wearing a similar outfit as him, although she has a top covered in fruits as well. Dangling from one of her ears is a tiny bell shaped like an apple. Although I cannot hear it I assume that it is perfectly functional and ringing merrily. The thought of that bell, crying its heart out but deafened by the roars and cheers from the audience, makes me sad. I don't know why.

The District Twelve chariot is bright orange. Unsurprisingly, when I look at the tributes I am totally uninterested. They are wearing the standard miner outfits, and are each clutching lethal-looking (but no doubt fake) pickaxes. Their skin has been rubbed with black makeup to add the "dirty" feel that most people think goes hand in hand with District Twelve. On their heads are helmets with bright headlamps that illuminate their glowing orange eyes. No doubt they have been given contacts to wear. Both tributes look fairly disgruntled. I can understand; there are many more interesting costumes than theirs, and no doubt they have begun to realize that.

"… And, in conclusion," says President Finn, and I realize that I have turned myself into a massive hypocrite by not listening to his speech. "I would like to wish all of you a Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" The audience goes wild at the well-known catchphrase. I can see the District Twelve costumes glowing like crazy, and I resist the urge to frown. _Just… stay cool, Roulla. As soon as you are off-camera, you may revert back to your normal self, and not a second earlier._

The horses are waiting, stamping their feet. As soon as the District Five chariot starts to move, our chariot begins as well, trailing behind them. The ride back to the stables is, if possible, even more stressful than the ride to City Circle. I have a lot to think about, besides. District Three stealing the spotlight, and that Yiri-like girl from District Six, are enough to completely occupy my mind on the way back to the stables.

I barely even notice as we finally escape the cheers of the Capitol citizens. My mind is still entirely occupied by the events of the night. I am seized by a sudden urge to find the District Six girl, just to see if she looks more like Yiri up close, but I resist the urge. _No, _I think. _It doesn't matter if she looks like Yiri or not. She cannot mean anything to me at all, or this will all end badly._

I am ready to go back to my room and sleep for a long, long time. To a certain extent, I wish that when I woke up, I could be in another body, another person completely, with another life. Maybe then I could finally have five minutes of peace… All I'm asking for is a few moments of peace…


	18. If It's Not Me

**Getting thigns a little more on track. Hopefully, they stay that way. We keep having net outages where I live. In the past week we've had...four outages. Cat is still sick. But we're keeping on trucking. Hope you enjoy this new chapter and I am working on reviews shortly.**

**We have two one shots that are coming-one of Aspen and Nella(if they had never been reaped) and one on what if Relk Stein had won. 0_0**

**These are both being done for charity, as such they will available about four months sooner on there than on here. I'm going to write more about that soon and show you where it's at and who's in it. There will be a link coming to our profile about it within the next two days. Hope you'll check it out!**

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**Bastian Estatika of District Five**

**Night of the Chariot Rides**

**by DryBonesKing**

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_"Do you think a champion is made out of thin air? It's through the hardships you endure that you'll gain real strength."_  
_― Gail Tsukiyama_

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Being a self-proclaimed anti-social and having been semi-ostracized by my District, I have never been used to being around too many people at one particular moment. I have never received much attention from people, as I often tried to avoid them. The Chariot Rides truly were like nothing I have ever experienced before. There were so many strangers, each with assorted hair colors, clothing, and features that I didn't even know where physically possible! All these strange looking people were watching over all the tributes; watching over me! They were screaming, hollering, cheering for us. They were staring at us, taking multiple pictures. Video cameras were recording the event and showing the events to the Districts. I had the eyes of every person in Panem on me…

…to put it in very simple terms, I was more than just a little uncomfortable. I felt my nerves getting worse with each passing second on the chariot. Only the thought of trying to get sponsors kept me from passing out.

I thanked whatever God was out there the second the chariots stopped and the night was over. Finally, the attention had gone away. The eyes of Panem were no longer focused on me for the time being. That thought alone calmed me down greatly and put me more at ease.

Atalanta and I hopped off our chariot when we were instructed to do so. We were immediately greeted by our mentor, escort, and stylists.

"Darlings, you looked amazing!" Venus, my overly preppy and talkative stylist, praised us.

I nodded at her words, not trusting myself to give her a proper response. Quite frankly, I felt ridiculous in my outfit. The only thing that made me feel at ease at being seen in public in it was that the other tributes were all wearing ridiculous costumes as well.

Still, I found myself hating the outfit I was forced to wear more than I probably should. The black bodysuit and the wires were rather uncomfortable. I also did not enjoy the fact that my hair was spiked up. Ever since I was a little boy, I've worn my hair in a ponytail due to its length. It's something that has become a characteristic of mine, something that helped define who I am. The Capitol obviously saw fit to change one of the few unique characteristics I had.

I shake my head a little in irritation, barely paying attention to the conversation occurring between the stylists and our escort. The walk to the elevator is relatively quick. Inside the elevator, it becomes harder to zone out the obnoxious conversation of the Capitol citizens working with me. I sigh in frustration.

_In just a little bit, we will be back on our floor. Then I can head to my room and be away from this pointless and annoying conversation._

After what feels like an eternity, we finally arrive on the fifth floor. I waste no time in leaving the elevator first and heading to my room. No one tries to stop me or converse with me. I believe I made it a point that I am not someone who enjoys conversation, so they see no reason to try to talk to me.

When I get to my room, I immediately strip off the horrid outfit my stylist forced me into and change into a pair of clothes that were on my bed. I then turn my attention to my district token, my notepad.

_Well, today was a rather pointless day. Now, time to do something useful with the rest of it._

_Time to start working on my masterpiece; time to start writing the story that shall save my life!_

I pick up the pen placed right by my notepad and open it up to the middle. I stare at the blank paper for a second, trying to put my thoughts together. In a few seconds, I find myself starting to write down my analysis on the other twenty-three tributes.

Seconds turn to minutes. By the time I finish my analysis, I look down at everything I had written. Most tributes only have a few notes next to them. For example, I didn't spend too much time writing about the two tributes from District Seven. Nor did I focus much on those from Districts Eleven, Eight or Nine. I only wrote what stood out to me and certain tributes did not stand out as much. That did not mean I wasn't going to be wary of them, however. Far from it! They will be under my observation during the training days in order to prevent myself from underestimating them…

However, I will admit, I will probably spend most of my time observing the tributes that I actually wrote a lot about. Some tributes had a lot that stood out to me, and therefore, had more information that needed to be written down. The tributes from the Career districts were obviously going to be on such a list. The girl from Three and the boy from Twelve also sparked my interest. Atalanta, my own district partner, was on this list as well.

Those tributes are the ones I'm going to have to watch out for the second the countdown at the beginning of the Games is finished. I have to make sure they do not get the opportunity to kill me!

With that thought in my head, I put my focus back on writing. I immediately start coming up with hypothetical scenarios for the arena. What type of arena to expect, what possible weapons are in the cornucopia, what traps the gamemakers could design, etc. While I can't expect to accurately predict what's going to happen in the arena, I can at least try and think of the possibilities. Just attempting to make sure I am ready for everything!

I'm about to flip to the next page in my notepad when I hear the sound of my door being opened. I can feel myself starting to sweat and get nervous. I've been bottling up the paranoia I usually have on a daily basis since the beginning of the Reaping day. For some reason, the sound of my door opening without warning starts to release some of the paranoia. I turn frantically from my position, closing my notepad and clutching the pen in my hand as if it was a knife. My eyes don't leave the door as I watch it finally open.

Atalanta walks into my room obviously she had similar thoughts about our outfit for the chariot ride, for she has changed into a new set of clothes.

My district partner says nothing to me as she closes the door. She stares at me with cautious and critical eyes. Based on my stance and the way I'm clutching the pen, it probably appears as if I was about to toss a knife at her heart. The mental image enters my head and I imagine a knife of mine going straight into her head. Death would most certainly be instantaneous.

…_it's depressing that I've already started to think of the other tributes dying like that. I've started to think like some common criminal or murderer! But…it's normal. It's normal, right? I mean only one of us can survive. There can only be one victor: the Quarter Quell is no exception…_

_I hate the Capitol. I hate it and everything it stands for so much…_

"…what are you doing?" Atalanta asks me after a small period of silence, interrupting my thoughts. Her gaze on me is still critical. She seems to be analyzing me as if I had attempted to kill her. Probably trying to see how much of a threat I could be in the Games.

"…I'm writing…" I mumble, dropping my paranoid and frantic stance and turning back to my notepad and opening it again to look at in attempt to calm myself.

Silence passes through the room for a little while once again. I prefer it this way. I've never been fond of conversation. I've always found peace and joy during my life in the company of silence and solitude. Atalanta is not someone I feel comfortable enough with to leave the comfort of silence. I feel myself getting more at ease with each passing second of quiet. Unfortunately, she seems to disagree with my opinion. After a few more seconds, she finally starts to walk over to me.

"Writing what?" She asks curiously, trying to look at my notepad.

I close my notebook again and turn back to her, staring blankly. My mind tries to think of some response. Sadly, the only thing that came to mind was rather sarcastic. _Oh nothing much. Just my plans for the arena so that way I can come home alive. Of course, that would mean you would be dead. No offense, of course._ I roll my eyes for a second at the thought of showing her anything I am planning for the arena. That would be very unwise in the long run, considering she is a threat who could probably kill me. As a result, I keep my mouth shut about it.

Atalanta's intense gaze returns once again, this time more critical than before in an attempt to intimidate me or something. A few of the attendants in the Capitol we have met have been easily scared by my partner. She's confident and strong and she has no problem showing that in the way she carries herself. I'll admit it myself. It's extremely intimidating to be around her! Her critical stare brings forth more of the paranoia I had been trying to hide.

"…I'm working on a story." I finally mumble after my mind thinks of something to say. I open the notepad and turn to a separate section away from my plans for the arena, the epic of Renault and Amos is seen on the pages in my notepad.

Atalanta picks up my notepad for a second and starts looking at the story that I have been crafting. Her critical and intimidating gaze has finally left. I can feel myself calming down again. She's less suspicious of me, finally.

After awhile, my district partner returns the notepad to me.

"You aren't half bad. You're a pretty good writer." She tells me in a neutral tone.

"Thanks." I reply. I smile a little at the praise she gave me. Atalanta doesn't seem like the type of person to praise someone unnecessarily or falsely. _She must mean it when she says I'm a good writer._I take the compliment with great pride!

"Did you ever publish anything back in District Five?" She asks me, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

"No." I mumble. "…I have a few small stories that I have finished back at home but I never ended up getting them published. I was planning on publishing something in a year or two maybe."

"…I see." My red-haired partner replies, her voice back to the neutral tone it was in. She stares at me a little critically before turning her gaze back to the notepad. "…it's a shame you'll never get anything published then. I'm sure the people in our District would enjoy reading you work."

I know exactly what she is referring to. She's talking about 'my death' in the arena. I don't think she's outright planning my murder as of right now, but I know she's thinking that she will be coming out alive. She's thinking how I will die in order for her to come home. _That's Atalanta for you._ Her confidence is something admirable, I have to admit. She has to have great faith in her skills and abilities in order to tell me, her own district partner, that I'll be dying in the arena.

"My older brother may publish some of my work at some point. I gave him permission to do so awhile back." I inform her in an attempt to steer the conversation away from the arena and any death she may or may not have planned for me.

"I see." She replies, still staring at the notepad. A small smile comes up on her face. "I guess I'll have to wait to see if he publishes them or not."

_Another hint at my death? She doubts me this much?_

I don't respond, merely remaining quiet and trying to find some comfort in the silence. I can feel myself starting to get irritated, thinking about her confidence. _I'm no weakling._ I'm a true threat this year, whether she sees it or not. I have to be! After all my preparation, I have to be. And I intend on showing it to her, and all who are watching as the arena begins.

"…he may not though. He may deny any relation to me after seeing how ridiculous we looked during the chariot ride." I mumble, once again trying to steer the conversation away from the arena and death and to a better, more comfortable topic.

This time, my plan works. Atalanta groans, remembering the horrid black bodysuit.

"The outfit did not help us stand out really. I don't believe too many people in the Capitol were too interested in us. Not that I care at all if they like us or not, but I realize they'll be our sponsors. The ridiculousness of the outfit didn't help us get them interested in us, so the whole night was basically a waste of time." She tells me bitterly.

_So she's thinking about sponsors?_ I'll make a note to remember that when time comes for her interview. I'll be paying attention to her angle and the audience's reaction to her. It'll help me decide how much of a threat she really can be in the arena. She could be a bigger threat than the Careers. After all, she was brought into the Games for the sole purpose of killing me...

Our conversation continues on the subject of the chariot ride. We discuss the other tributes and our opinions on them. She, like me, noticed a few that stood out and were probably in a good position to receive sponsors. This resulted in more complaining about the idiocy of our stylist for failing to create an outfit that wasn't ridiculous and failing to help us attract sponsors for our survival.

The whole conversation feels awkward to me due to my lack of social skills, but I feel relieved that we are talking about something that doesn't have to do with the arena. Whenever the subject has the potential of getting brought up, I immediately get back on topic about the other tributes or the chariot ride. I don't want to risk accidentally slipping up in a conversation about the arena and revealing any of my -plans to her. Atalanta is very intelligent and I'd rather not give her any foresight into my plans. She doesn't need that advantage over me.

"I wonder what the people back in District Five thought of us." Atalanta mumbles, still remaining on our topic.

I shrug in response, not really knowing what to say. I can imagine what District Five was saying when they saw me on the chariot and none of it was particularly pleasant to me.

"…they really hate you, don't they?" She asks me.

I give her no response.

"Because of that accident. They blame you for it." She continues.

"…idiots." I finally reply. I can feel the irritation returning.

Atalanta gives me a nod in agreement. I can feel myself a little more at ease, knowing she agrees with me. Still, I find myself frustrated again at the thought of my District. For the first time in awhile, I actually feel like talking. I feel like complaining.

"All of the District hates us. They will never forget what happened. They always remind us. They take one look at me or my father or anyone in my family and they will see the ruined factory and all of the chaos from the accident." I state bitterly. "They don't see it as an accident. They hate us for it and want nothing more than to watch us suffer. They are probably stoked to see me heading off into the arena. They are thinking they are getting their revenge!"

"But revenge for what?" I continue, this time raising my voice a little. "Revenge for an accident? Revenge because my father was overworked and made a mistake that any of the other workers could have made? How is that fair to him? How is that fair to my family? To me? We didn't murder those workers or injure them! We didn't do anything to deserve the treatment we get! But still, we get it. And here I am because of it: because of those ignorant idiots who refuse to see things with logic."

Silence once again fills the room after the rant. Unlike previously, this silence is rather uncomfortable. Atalanta stares at me with a face that I can not read. I can't tell what she is thinking. She isn't looking at me with those critical, intimidating eyes any more. She doesn't seem really sympathetic or sorrowful though. I can't tell what exactly she is thinking and it's bothering me.

"…I was put in the Games to kill you." She mumbles, her voice actually showing the emotion I failed to read. Atalanta is angry. As angry as I was in my rant. "I admit that I wanted to get into the Games, but based on my own credentials. I wanted to get into the Games and win for me. Not because the District wanted me to kill you. It angers me that they are so stupid. They fail to see how the accident was not your fault. There is no reason to punish you but they take pride and pleasure in sending you to your death. They are no better than the Capitol citizens!"

Silence once again takes over the room. I stare at her for a second in shock. It's been a long time since I've seen someone from District Five think something like that about the accident and my family. Even our mentor is angry with me because of the accident. But, of all people, my district partner sees the truth. The person designated to be my executioner is the one person who realizes that the incident wasn't the fault of me or my family.

If I had a darker sense of humor, I'd laugh at the irony.

"If everyone thought like that, I'd be sitting at home watching you in the Games…" I tell her, not sounding disappointed in that mental image.

"If only." She shrugs. "But you are here with me."

The conversation effectively dies with those words. We make no real attempts to start it again. After a few seconds of more quiet, Atalanta gets up and walks over to the door to walk out. I watch her open the door and slowly leave the room.

"…Atalanta?" I call to her.

She stops herself from completely closing the door. She turns back around to me and looks at me, waiting for an answer.

"If I were to fail to come back home, I would want it to be you who won." I let her know, a small smile on my face.

Atalanta smirks in response, confidence exhibited on it.

"Don't worry, I intend on winning." She replies in her usual, confident tone of voice. "...although, if I were to fail for some reason, I would like you to win in my place."

With that, she closes my door, leaving me in the presence of the solitude I enjoy so well.

Although, I feel relieved and happy to have met someone who agrees with me on the irrationality of District Five's opinion of my family, I am also quite happy to be done with my conversation with her. There is always a desire within me to be alone. I always enjoy it when I get the chance to be alone.

With my district partner gone, I turn my attention back to the notepad and pen. I flip pages from my story and head back to my notes on the Games. I slowly started to skim over my analysis of the tributes and my hypothetical scenarios before I continue with any new ideas.

"Atalanta…" I mumble to myself as I finally start to write about a potential strategy of mine for the arena. "You are confident. You are strong. If anyone else had to win, I would want it to be you. Sadly, though, I am in this year's games as well and I don't intend on dying."

With that final thought in my mind, I finish up writing about my plan. I can't help but hide the smirk developing on my face. I have an idea. Something that I've never seen done before in the Games. Something that could shake up the very way the Hunger Games works. If I were to able to start working with it, I could accomplish great things and easily win this year's Games.

_Guess I have some plot to add finally before I can get to the ending. It's an interesting plot at that! We'll see how the audience likes it!_

I spend the rest of the night working on the plan I have for the Games. By the time I find myself falling to sleep, I have an outline of how the Games will work out. I can feel myself smirking in a manner similar to Atalanta as I drift off to sleep.

_This is going to be good…_


	19. Villians Enjoy Themselves

****Apologies for another late chapter, we had a family emergency/crisis come up. I'm not comfortable talking about it enmasse right now. Trust me that it's a major deal, and it's not resolved yet. It shouldn't interfere with this story so much-it only interferred with it because it just occurred and we were reeling with what to do. Now it's just a major waiting game.

So please keep my family in your thoughts/prayers.

Because of this, next chapter will be up on Sunday then resume schedule on Tuesday with the next update.

Again, I'm sorry!

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**Atalanta Zimmerman of District 5**

**Training Day 1**

**Written by leontopithecusrosalia**

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_First comes thought; then organization of that thought, into ideas and plans; then transformation of those plans into reality. The beginning, as you will observe, is in your imagination._

_Napoleon Hill_

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I'm washing off the bloody stains on my arms when I hear quickened footsteps. It takes all my energy to clumsily splash out of the water, soaking myself too much for my liking. As I slip on the bank, I catch sight of the person. Well, if you would consider a decayed human being with legs splayed in impossible directions and shoulders scarred beyond repair, a person. But despite the absence of the bandages that usually cover her wounds, I know it's Lyric. Part of me tells me that it's fine, she's my friend. But a larger part, the instinctive part, commands me to keep running, and never stop. So I continue to propel myself forward, willing my legs to move, although they feel dangerously stiff.

In front of me, trees start to collapse, forcing me to jump, dodge, and trip over my weakened feet. But one tree stands out. It resembles the one that broke Lyric's legs so well, I feel like I'm looking at the same tree. As soon as I realize this, a seven year old girl with dark brown hair runs out of the forest, eyes wide with fear as she tries to escape the approaching thunderstorm. I want to scream and tell her to stop, but can't find my voice. She runs right in front of the tree, which falls, on her. The girl squeals in pain as she tries to claw her way out. Almost instinctively, I rush to help her, but before I get there, she disappears.

I hear a malicious laugh behind me, and turn to see Lyric's dark, crazed eyes. I try to run, I really do, but a bloody, shriveled hand grips my shoulder, denying my exit.

"You failed, Atalanta." Lyric says pointedly, gesturing towards the path where only moments ago, the girl was struggling under the weight of the tree. "Just like you did when we were seven. You're a failure." I looked at her, positively speechless, as she stares me down, eyes wild, almost like she'd gone crazy.

"I tried," I say, attempting to steady my already hoarse voice, but despite my best efforts, it cracks.

"Not hard enough." Lyric says, growing angry. "Do you know what it feels like to be stuck in bed, not able to leave without being in extreme pain?" She continues before I have the chance to even answer. "No, you don't." The corners of her mouth start to grin, and her eyes develop a dangerous glint. "But you will." She says, laughing.

I watch in horror as she pulls out a dagger with jagged edges.

"No, stop. Please. I didn't mean for you to end up being bedridden." I plead, hardly recognizing the tone in my voice, which seems alien against my tongue.

"It still happened. And if you really did care, then what was going through that thick skull of yours a couple days ago? Did you wander why I wasn't at the Reaping? Why you didn't see me at Avis's house? You thought I was fine, that there was nothing wrong?" Lyric stumbles a little, trying to force herself to say the next part.

"Well, your thoughts don't matter anymore. You're dead." She whispers, sounding sickeningly sweet. And as soon as she says those words, the knife slices my legs from the upper thighs. Not off, but to the point where they are rendered useless, destroying my joints and several muscle tissues. I look down at them, trying to hide my pain, watching as the scarlet red blood trickles down my leg in loose clumps. And then, at an agonizingly slow pace, my legs shrivel up and turn to dust. The last thing I see is Lyric's laughing face.

I wake up in the same sweaty state I'm always in, eyes blinking rapidly, willing the nightmares to go away. My messy hair clings tightly to my neck, hugging it like a scarf on those cold winter nights when I would practice. I let short, raspy breaths out of my dry throat, and force my shaking hand to feel the blankets that were covering me moments ago, to confirm that it was only a dream. It takes me a second to register the steady knocks on my door, which must have pulled me out of my troubled slumber. Immediately, I start questioning who it is. Mind racing far too fast. Vanyo? Vita? Bastian? No, my mentor is probably too busy drinking or something. I doubt Bastian would wake me up. So it must be my escort. Yes, that makes sense. I should have known before she started knocking.

"Atalanta," She coos, confirming her identity. "It's time to come out. Today's going to be a big, big, big, big, big, big, big day." Somehow, Vita's able to say it all in one breath, making it all the more annoying. It's not that I like to sleep in. No, I'm up at three in the morning throwing knives, but seriously, if this building wasn't swarming with Peacekeepers, I would kill whoever woke me up from a nightmare. Okay, not really kill, but at least seriously injure. I don't know why I react that way. Is it the tattered, broken condition I'm in after each nightmare? The fact that she can wake me up from this completely uninjured, showing that she has authority over me? Maybe. I step out of bed, rub a wet cloth across my face, and finger through my hair, attempting to rid it of some knots. After massaging my eyelids one last time, trying to wipe the sleep out of them, I open the door.

"You're here." She says, her voice so high pitched that I'm sure she's woken up everyone in the building. I nod, resisting the urge to cover my ears, which are hearing the nonexistent echoes of it. Her facial expression matches that of a child's on Christmas. "Breakfast is on the table, come down when you're ready." I struggle not to mimic her accent as she dances out of the doorway, luminescent green wig and all.

Closing the door behind her, I peel off my clothes, take a short, pathetic shower, change, and try to comb my hair, which results in more knots. Giving up, I place the comb back down, and leave the room with my hair still dripping wet. At this point, it's not like my appearance really matters anyways.

By the time I'm outside, everyone has already been seated around the long, black table, engaged in a conversation about the Chariot Rides. They all glance up, registering my presence, and then return to talking. I take the only open seat left, which is next to Bastian, and immediately narrow my lips in order to hide the pleasurable smile that was about to form. Seriously, it's hard not to appear happy when a million different aromas are floating up your nose, each begging for you to eat their source.

Laid out in front of me are fancy porcelain dishes filled with more food than I've ever seen at one time. Blue lobsters, which I can only guess are from District Four, are laid out neatly across a huge plate. They're layered in an oily substance, which gives it a light yellow hue. The pinchers point upward, allowing me to peer into the masses of white rice neatly packed inside, kept together in tight balls. Other pinchers contain fruits, like strawberries and bananas, drizzled lightly with honey. And then there's the apples. Laid out on a separate, smaller dish, three of them, surrounded by smaller slices. On the stem of the full apples are honeysuckles, wrapped around in a thin line, leaving no bare spot, and taking the appearance of a vine. Like the fruit, the apple slices have been individually covered with honey in loose, wavy lines, but have chocolate too as a special effect. Apparently, the appearance is just as important as the taste.

"Sleep well?" My mentor asks lazily.

"Sure," I say, letting the bored tone slip. "I slept like a baby." I look down at my apple, hiding the eye roll. "Who wouldn't when they were awaiting their impending doom?"

"Atalanta, there will be plenty of time for arguments in the arena. Don't pick a fight with the person who could very well save your life."

"Yeah, and I need your help." I say, smirking. "Aleah Armani got absolutely nothing from her mentor, and look at her now, she's sitting pretty in a Victor House. You can save my life? Keep dreaming, Vanyo."

"If she's having the time of her life in that fabled Victor House, then why is Sean in this year's games? She may have survived the Hunger Games without her mentor, but it cost her a brother." He pauses for a second, waiting to see if I respond. I try to appear to be away, focusing on something in the distance. The potted bonsai tree?

"Now, training is for making alliances, developing skills, and attracting sponsors. Do all three of these, and I can almost guarantee you'll survive the blood bath. And try to think before you act. While rash actions may win you sponsors, in the end it's allies that have your back." It takes all I have not to make a comment about allies, because in the end, they have your back so they can stab it. How easy would it be to get in the career alliance, call first watch, and then kill everyone in their sleep? Simple.

The remainder of breakfast is lovely silence, nothing but the sound of chewing filling my ears.

"It's ten," Vita says happily, setting her dishes aside. I smile slightly, hardly being able to contain my excitement, as an avox walks over to take the abandoned plates, while Bastian fiddles with his fingers nervously. There's no doubt that he'll be wanting an ally. I can tell just by his body language that he won't survive through the first three days without one. Sure, he may be planning for the Hunger Games, but that won't be enough. Yeah, I know what he was doing last night. Though I'll admit that his cover would have been believable, had it not been for his initial reaction. The two of us, meaning Bastian and I, board the elevator, which closes as soon as we enter. The brief ride is silent, each of us staring out the glassy windows, taking in the enormous skyscrapers.

Although in technical terms, we're on time, Bastian and I were the last two to make it to the Training Center. I can see some of the careers let out an annoyed huff, while others simply stand there indifferent. A muscular man steps in the middle of the circle, looking us all over. He must be the Head Trainer, Torin. As he gives the familiar speech that I've heard on television several times, I look at the other tributes. Enemies. A couple return my glare, but most just ignore me. Among those smirking are the two tributes from District One, who must be the head of the career pack. I'll have to keep an eye on them.

"You are free to go," Torin says. As soon as these words leave his mouth, the careers quickly disassemble, each heading for a weapon. I smile vaguely, taking everything in. Sure, I've always known the Training Center was huge, but words cannot even begin to describe the size of this thing. There must be at least thirty individual stations here, each with a specialist. To my right is everything sharp, or potentially lethal. A simple snare is displayed on the top of a table, begging people to come over and try to recreate it.

But for most people, they're nothing compared to the swords. About twenty gleaming points peek out from a wired barrel, each varying in size, shape, and design. Some of the handles have intricate fire patterns, and others have meter long blades. Sure wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that... Not that I would be, I like to think of swords as oversized knives, that would be easy for me to learn to manipulate if I gave myself the time. I'm tempted to go over there now, but I was planning on starting simple first. I know that if I go over to the knives, I won't be able to get myself to move on. And anyways, if I want to leave my mark, I want to end with an impression. Therefore, a high training score, as well as spending the last day with the knives would work fine.

Snapping myself back into focus, I scan the more educational stations. There's plant identification, which has the population relevant to a ghost town. Whoever works there must be on a break or something. But there doesn't really need to be anyone there anyway, since it's basically a touchscreen tablet of sorts, showing you pictures, and having you identify the subject, later showing you additional information about that plant. I'm tempted to start there, but plants make me bored, since I spent so long studying them in school. So I decide to go with the snares. No other tributes are there as most are trying to acquaint themselves with a spear, or paint themselves with brushes, in an attempt to gain the appearance of an overgrown tree.

"Hello... Atalanta," The trainer says, reading off my name tag. He stands with his arms crossed, like a motionless cornstalk. Thin, elongated fingers, and a straight posture. I bend down so I'm eyelevel with the snare. It's nothing like a typical grouping of knots that I could have imagined. There is a log slanted upright, with a stick connecting it to another tiny limb, which is in a vertical position. On the end of that stick is a tiny ball of meat. Now how does this work? I wonder, accidentally letting out a questioning look.

"It's a Figure Four Trap." He says softly. "When used correctly, an animal will take the bait, and the log will fall on them, resulting in its death. It's works great, if you make the notches correctly." I look closer, and sure enough, there are tiny, intricate dents in the wood. It all looks so precise, so perfect, so easy. I wonder if there is someway I could make an oversized version of this to use against tributes.

It's kind of funny, the idea of just an innocent loaf of bread being the cause of your death. And maybe, if I learned some camouflage, I could actually hide it, making it look less, you know, ominous. Or maybe, I could set it up near a bush, and when you grab the right branch... I'll admit, I've seen reruns of every Hunger Games to better prepare myself for something like this, but I've never seen someone try that. I can't help but smile as I think about it. And Atalanta Zimmerman receives the award for the most creative kill. I try to imagine President Finn saying that, and manage a small chuckle.

I remember when I was twelve, my main focus was knives and traps. I only stopped because Lyric, being the soft person that she is, begged me not to because it was resulting in the death of innocent animals. And yet she was the one I gave the meat to. I frown a little, as the nightmare I had last night reacquaints itself, trying to suffocate the good times I had with Lyric out of my memory. It is not until I hear an annoying giggle that I escape from the pool of guilt attempting to drown me. It takes all I have to suppress an eye roll. Long, ashy hair, tied back in a pony, and stormy grey eyes. It must be Admire.

"Come on Attie, can't even handle a piece of rope?" She says, teasingly shaking it in front of my eyes. Attie, I hate it when people call me that. I remember back when I was hardly seven, Birgitta and I were bitter rivals. It was childish, of course, but she would always call me that because she knew how much I hated informality. The most I'll take is Atala, anything less and you're asking for a knife in the head. It's too late for me to do anything physical, there's at least seven peacekeepers focused only on us. Why are there so many of them?

"I'd like to see you try," I counter.

"I would, but I don't have time for such... petty tasks." Admire smirks, thinking that every word has sent a thousand daggers tearing at my skin, making me lose my sanity.

She's playing you, Atalanta. They haven't seen my skill with a knife, but the Careers have probably seen my reaping, something about their obsession over knowing their enemy. It would be understandable that they've made a note to watch out for me, take me down early, when they're at their strongest, based on the crowd's cheer when I was reaped, and my overall arrogant attitude. In my defense though, after all the cheering, there really was no other angle that I could come from. I mean, would it make sense for people to be proudly chanting a someone's name, and then have that person go up on the stage, positively terrified. Really, if I had a choice, I probably would have wanted to seem more vulnerable, but alas, my district had to ruin it. Admire might be trying to get on my nerves so I target them, which is something only a fool would do. Well if she is, her effort is in vain, because obviously, I'm not falling for it.

"Why," I ask. "Are your offensive tactics getting a bit rusty?" Admire laughs at this, like I've asked an entirely illogical question, which is, in some cases, true. I'm nearly positive there was a tournament in District One, so she has to have a least a little athletic skill. Wait, Admire's entirely focused on trying to make me do something stupid, so what if I can get her to accidentally show me what her best strength is? Someone's about to get really offensive.

"That'd be great for you, wouldn't it? Sadly, in your case, that's not true. Me without having any offensive skill whatsoever? You are awake, right?" She says, pretending to be worried. That's it. No one is allowed to think I'm easy to defeat. I glance towards my right. Knives, perfect.

"You are going to shut up, right now, or I will make sure of it, permanently." I say in a rushed, threatening whisper. As if to punctuate my point, I take a knife, and throw it at a dummy, which nearly goes straight through its head. I look over at Admire, expecting to see a shocked expression. She's still smiling in her familiar, arrogant way, but I can tell that she's somewhat taken back. I would be too, assuming it was directed at me, but it wasn't, so there's no reason to worry.

"This isn't District One, Admire," I say, waving another blade in her face. "This is The Hunger Games, and you may have gotten yourself into much more than you bargained for." It doesn't take much longer for Admire to bounce back.

"We'll see," She says, smirking. Admire leaves afterwards, walking off to join the other careers.

Once I throw one knife, it's kind of impulsive to throw another one, and then another, and another. It's something I'm horrible at controlling, but I'm perfectly fine with that. Throwing knives causes fear to erupt in the other tributes. Throwing knives gets me sponsors. Throwing knives makes me more than the sadistic ginger. Throwing knives forces people to remember me, to never forget my deadly ability.

But throwing these knives reminds me of Arend and Theis. Yes, I will admit, I'm not entirely self taught. In actuality, I first learned the basic form from mimicking my cousins. By the time I was five, we were practicing in my backyard with blunt butter knifes. They were fourteen at the time, and could have managed better with kitchen knives, the kind that actually stuck. But a knife is a knife, no matter how small. It became a habit of ours, gathering in my backyard, taking out the knives, practicing, and then picking the apples at lunchtime. But then the Capitol had to ruin it. They reaped Arend, and the careers killed him. They shot an arrow through his neck. Right through. It's the only Hunger Games replay that I never watch, but I don't need to see it to remember.

Weeks after his death and the arrival of his coffin, my Aunt, Uncle, and Theis went crazy. They drugged themselves to the point where living was impossible. I won't put my family through the same thing. I will win, and nothing is going to stop me. Nothing. So I look down at the knife, wondering if Arend ever used it, therefore causing an inevitable flashback.

"Atalanta, don't grip on it so tightly. The blade will stick, and you'll waste potential energy on yourself." Arend said as he loosed my fingers.

"I'm bored," Theis announced, sitting down and tossing his knife aside. Arend and I looked at him like he was crazy. I guess he just didn't have the same passion for throwing knives that Arend and I did.

"Then what are you going to do about it?" Arend asked. He loved to pep talk, and wanted to be a motivational speaker of sorts when he grew up.

"I don't know, play knife tag or something?" I smiled at that. I've always loved knife tag. Basically, there's one kid running with a butter knife, if you're hit with it, you're out. It's great practice for The Hunger Games, and it gives me an excuse for shooting a knife at their heads. Aunt Hopelle tried to put us all in body suits, but eventually gave up because we played this game so much and without warning, that it was pointless to follow us around like the mosquitos when you could be watching television on the tempting flat screen we had inside. It took awhile, but eventually, Aunt Hopelle chose the latter.

"Why don't you use the knife?" Arend said, trying to contain his excitement. Seriously, for a game we play about every couple of days, he came across as over emotional.

"Again?" I complained. "Why am I always the bad guy?" Then a smirk crossed my lips, foreshadowing my next sentence. "Is it because I'm so good at it?" They don't really need to answer that one. In truth, the two are so proud, that they're terrified of giving the other bragging rights, assuming they win. In their defense, I wouldn't like it either. If I played that game with Avis and Birgitta, I'd win of course, but if I didn't, they'd never stop reminding me of my tragic loss.

I can feel eyes on me as I hold the knife. Wow, I really have to stop drifting off. I flip the blade in my hand, putting it in proper position, and then throw. Each knife hits the dummy at three second intervals. First the arms, as if my opponent is holding something. Good, arms are offense. Then the two legs, which the knives are in before the person could even think of escape. This is the point where you could choose to either end them, or let them have a slow, painful death. Personally, I'd like to take all of their supplies and weapons while they were still conscious, pick out the knives, and then leave them to bleed to death. At that point, the best scenario would be the appearance of a mutt, but most people aren't that lucky.

I go back half wondering if the careers are going to ask me to join their pack. Probably not. After my threat to Admire, who does have some authority, they'll probably steer clear. That's a smart move, if someone asks me to join any alliance, I'll probably make them seem like a fool and leave with a death threat. Avis would probably be telling me to lighten up by now, joking that she doesn't want to be friends with someone who has stress lines when they're only twenty. But really, I'll have to lighten up on the death threats if I want people to take me seriously. After all, one person can't hate the world and destroy it all. At least I hope not...

I move on to the next dummy, and with both my hands loaded with one knife, I release. One knife lands right where the other would be, and the other is a headshot. When I tried to teach Birgitta how to throw knives, she was convinced I was ambidextrous, but it's all practice. Kind of like how when you kick something with your non-dominant foot long enough, you can eventually kick it just as well as your other. Practice never makes perfect, but it makes good enough.

I'm tempted to go over to the circle of dummies, each about five feet apart from the other, but a couple of careers have already taken residence there. I'd love to go and taunt them, but really, I think I've seen enough of them for one day. I'll save it for the arena. So instead, I go back to the station I was at before Admire so rudely interrupted me. Bastian's already there by the time I arrive, standing in front of the table in a tense composure, trying to memorize the basic layout. Sure, it's just Bastian, but I hate sharing stations, so it's hard to contain the sigh threatening to erupt.

Remember Atalanta, arrogant. Be arrogant. You're untouchable. Yeah, as if I'd forget. Normally, I'm more on guard after I put down my knives, which are basically my only form of defense. Also, it could be because I was just thinking of Arend and Theis, but no one knows that. My subconscious is absolutely right, I'm perfectly fine. No one knows Arend was my cousin. It makes me want to go back and thank my seven year old self for hating to talk about it. I think of Bastian as socially awkward, which rings true as we stand there, both of us bending down in a backbreaking manner. Eventually, the quietness is just too much. He isn't judging me, is he? Trying to find my weakness.

He doesn't know you're related to Arend. I try to remind myself. But of course, my overactive mind persists on convincing me that he's psychic or something. Why else does he have long hair? It must hide his oversized brain or something. Maybe there's an extra portion of it used just to read people's thoughts. Well, if you're so paranoid, then why don't you distract him? Sure, I'll distract him.

"Do you actually plan on using this in the arena?" I smirk. Well, obviously. He's here for a reason. Hopefully I didn't come across as stupid, but then again, smirks always make things smart, right?

"I'm not sure, maybe." He replies in a shockingly even, measured voice. Trying to keep secrets are we? I really don't mind, because in the end, it doesn't matter what he has planned, I am going to find him, and end it. I'm going to end the pressure from my district to kill him. I am going to end my murderless record. I am going to end my district partner. And really, as long as I have a knife, there's nothing he can do about it.

"Are you," He asks, quickly turning the tables. I tighten my lips, hiding my vulnerability behind an iron wall.

"If necessary," I say, as if I'd never need to actually know this.

"I'm not sure I want to know your intentions with that thing," he says.

My mind races back to when I first got to this station. Oh yeah, human trap. Crushing them just like Lyric, except fatally. So he can read minds...

"What makes you say that?" I ask, trying to maintain my steady composure.

"You remind me of an antagonist in my old story." He says simply. So that must be his secret. He studies people, learns about their behavior, and then makes characters out of it to make his stories more believable. See, there's a perfectly logical answer for everything. I calm down quite fast, feeling easy enough to quickly come up with a response.

"Good," I say. I've always cheered for the bad guys through most of the stories I've read. The trainer says something about lunch, and all of the tributes leave in an excited rush, ready to wolf down anything and everything. So I hurry along, not wanting to be left to eat the remnants of their feast.


	20. Prison of the Capitol

Sorry this is late. My computer cord sparked and smoked. Had to find another computer. IRL crisis is still going on, and hoping it'll be solved soon. We'll find out. Likely the police will be involved by tomorrow. It's not me directly-it's something someone has done to my family.

I'll tell everyone soon. Thoughts and prayers for my family and I through this very hard time.

Next update should be Tuesday-and earlier. Sorry guys!

EDIT: Evidently FF is being a *bleeps inserted here*. None of the chapter was in bold and never was in bold. Hopefully this re-upload will help. If not...I don't know what's going on because the word document isn't in bold!

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Book's A/N: I apologize for the chapter seeming kind of like it jumps from one place to the next. It's supposed to. I wanted to make it about as long as all of the other chapters, and the only way to really do that was to have it jump to different moment in the evening.

La Rondinella (The Swallow) is an actual Italian folk song, originating in the Tuscany region. Here's a link to the song in English and Italian- minus the spaces. italiansrus folksongs/rondinella .htm

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**Alaric Pakalin of District 9**

**Evening of the First Training Session**

**Written by Booksandmusic96**

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_Bran thought about __it. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"_

"_That is the only time a man can be brave," his father told him."_

― _George R.R. Martin,_A Game of Thrones

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After the first day of training, I go up to my room in the training center to find the first aid kit that Ogden said is in every room. The psycho aichmophobic girl from District 7- whom I've nicknamed Bitey- attacked me and bit my hand until it bled while I was experimenting with different types of knives. When I tried to pry her teeth off, she'd just bit down harder- like a snake. Who knew that the human jaw was so powerful?

When I locate the first aid kit under the kitchenette sink, I quickly find what I need and wrap my hand in the bandages. Hopefully it'll be healed by the Games, but if it isn't, it won't be a major issue.

_I've had worse._

The room is very different than my bedroom at home. I expected it to be nicer since it's the Capitol, but honestly, I'd take my half-the-size room at home over this any day. At least home is warm, welcoming. Being in this room makes me feel cold, isolated, afraid, and anxious. I guess that's what they want though. Anxiety. Fear.

If I'm being honest, I've never been so anxious or afraid in my life. Not when Elke almost died of typhoid fever, not when I went deaf, not when little Chiara contracted a near-fatal respiratory infection, and not even when I caught the infection myself. At the end of this week, myself and twenty-three other teenagers from the Districts of Panem will enter the arena and be forced to fight to death. For the first time in my life, I'm _terrified._When Elke, Chiara and I were sick, there was a way to fix that- medicine. When I lost my hearing, there was a way out- hearing aids. But this? There's no way out of The Hunger Games except to play them.

Play them and win.

_You say that as if you stand a chance, Alaric._The little voice in my head sneers. I sigh, sit down on the foot of the bed, and place my hearing aids beside me. I promised Azura that I wouldn't check out in the arena, but that promise doesn't extend to elsewhere in the Capitol. With the day I've had, I need a few minutes to lay back, close my eyes, and retreat inside myself. With the world all but dead in silence I close my eyes and do nothing, not even think. Silence. My escape from the world. Truthfully, I pity those who don't have that option. Despite my intentions to not think about anything, especially the Games, the thoughts eventually invade my mind anyway.

I stand a chance. Maybe. Then again maybe I don't. The Careers this year are once again up to their normal standards. There will be at least six tough, bloodthirsty, ruthless tributes this year. A decent amount of tributes from other Districts seem to be capable fighters as well. If Bitey makes it past the bloodbath, she could be damaging to at least someone. If the tribute was solo that is, which is exactly how I plan to do this. It's that I'm fully confident in my abilities, because I'm not, and it's not that I'm being cocky. It's just that I'm perhaps one of the most socially awkward people in Panem, and cannot possibly build a trust relationship in three or four days' time. I'd rather take my chances alone than risk getting murdered in my sleep by an ally I thought I could trust. Moreover, why would anybody want to risk having to kill their ally, their friend?

I know I couldn't do it, and in order for me to win the Games and come home to my friends and family, killing is inevitable and I'd rather it be as impersonal as possible. Maybe then the "Victor's Nightmares" as they're often known as will be a little less terrifying and PTSD-relapse-inducing than usual.

_Yeah, like making my kills impersonal will make anything easier post-arena. Just the act of committing murder in itself would be enough to send me off the deep end._

Even so, I'd rather return home traumatized and scarred than die in the arena. After all, I did promise Chiara that we'd play hide-and-seek when I came back. Anyone with a younger sister knows that you don't break a promise for a four-year-old girl. And though I'm doing a damn good job at denying it, I do have some skills I can utilize in the arena. Since my family is often targeted by disgruntled employees of the lab, I, along with my siblings, have been trained in self-defense. I always win when I play darts, so surely I can learn to aim with knives.

It's not much of a chance, that is true, but it's _something_. At this point, I'll take even the most marginal of advantages. Who knows? It could be the difference between life and death.

~.*~.*~.*

A loud, incessant banging is what wakes me from my nap. It takes a second for me to register it, but I recognize it as a knock on the door. "Coming," I call out. I quickly cross the room and open the door to see Juniper, my District partner standing outside.

"Um…hi," she says. "Can I come in? I brought coffee."

"Coffee?" I say skeptically.

She raises the teapot in her left hand and nods to the mugs in her right. "I found all of this in my room. Coffee…"

I step aside and let her in. "I'm guessing you've never had coffee before?"

Juniper smiles and shakes her head. "No, never. At least not until earlier tonight."

I gasp overdramatically and say, "You poor thing! Coffee is like…it's its own food group."

She chuckles and pours the coffee from the teapot into the mugs and slides me one. "It's kind of bitter."

"Did you put sugar in it?"

"N-no," she stammers as she fiddles with her dark curls. "I didn't think to."

I nod and drink it black. "It's good coffee," I tell her.

"Thanks."

She sits on the foot of the bed and I sit on the floor as we sip our coffees. We glance at each other a few times as if to strike up a conversation, but we just sit there in an awkward silence instead.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I ask in a feeble attempt to make conversation.

Juniper is confused by the sudden question. "I'm…sorry?"

"Do you have any brother brothers or sisters?" I repeat. "You know siblings?"

"I have a brother and a sister; August is ten and Lavender is four. Why?" she says, raising her eyebrows.

"Just some friendly small talk is all."

Juniper scoffs, her timid façade gone. "Nothing is just friendly small talk amongst District partners, Al- can I call you that?"

I grit my teeth. "I'd rather you not."

"Alright then," she says with a shrug. "Do you have any siblings, Al?"

Juniper's nickname is annoying. Beyond annoying actually, but I don't correct her and just answer the question. "Twelve. Three brothers, nine sisters."

She whistles. "Damn."

"Yeah."

"Is your house crowded?" she asks.

"No, why would it- oh. You don't know?"

Juniper Harris looks genuinely confused. "Don't know what?"

"My father is a bioengineer." And that's all I needed to say for her to get the message.

"Oh. Upper class, eh? Fancy." She says, sarcasm oozing from her voice.

"Fancy. Sure," I mumble, casting a downward glance.

"Is it true that you're um…that you can't hear?" she asks.

I roll my eyes and joke, "Yes. I'm reading your lips. That's how I can talk to you."

Her jaw drops. "Seriously?"

"No," I laugh. "I _can_read lips, but I'm not right now. Hold on."

I take out my left hearing aid, place it beside me, and turn the volume down on the right one so that nothing quieter than a train could be heard and tell Juniper to say something, anything. I watch her lips as they move and shake my head. _Annunciate,_I tell her. _Open your mouth when you talk._She does and this time it is easier to read her lips. I fix my hearing aids as they should be before asking her if she wants to know what I think she said. She nods, skeptical.

"You said, 'Ooh, deaf boy tricks! In-ter-es-ting.'"

Juniper nods. "Alright, alright. That's pretty cool. Will that help you in the arena at all?"

"Most likely not but one can hope."

"One meaning you?"

"Mm hm,"

"Right, Al. One can," Juniper says and she stands up. "Sharing a cup of coffee has been fun, but I'd better get back to my room."

I shrug, not really caring either way. I like being alone anyway.

She gets to the door and pauses to ask a question. "Allies?"

"If by allies you mean 'Alaric, if we run into each other in the arena will you promise not to kill me?' Then yes."

"No, I meant-"

"I know what you meant. But the answer is no."

"But you can't possibly think that you stand a chance alone, can you?"

"Everyone stands a chance, Juniper."

"Yeah," she says, opening the door. "Some more than others."

The door slams behind her leaving me alone in the silence of the room.

~.*~.*~.*

_Pilgrim swallow, lightly winging,_

_Now upon the terrace sitting,_

_Ev'ry morn I hear thee singing_

_In sad tones thy song repeating…_

The words of the lullaby my mother used to sing bounce around in my head as I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. My mother would usually sing the lullaby in an old language called Italian, but taught it to us children in the language of Panem as well so as not to cause any upset if we ever felt like whispering the lyrics in the schoolyard. Old languages were forbidden in Panem after the rebellion.

The seven-verse tune is one of the many I used to hear my mother singing. Valide had a beautiful voice, and I bet that only she would just _try_to sing again that her voice would still be just as beautiful as it used to be. She stopped singing shortly after the attack at my father's lab, nobody really knows why. My older brother Benan, my older sisters, and myself all thought that is was still important that Chiara and the other little ones grew up hearing Valide's songs- especially The Swallow- so we've all took it upon ourselves to sing to them. I can carry a tune decently, but would in no way consider myself a "gifted" singer. Gaetanna, Elke and Aylin have the voices of angels; I'll admit I'm a mite jealous.

_Were I free! —but 't is denied me—_

_This low roof my soul confineth,_

_E'en of air they have deprived me,_

_Here the bright sun never shineth;_

_From this murky dungeon hollow_

_Scarce my words can reach thee, swallow!_

I feel like I'm the sad soul in whose perspective the song was written. I am a prisoner in the Capitol; albeit in a cushy luxury room rather than a dungeon. Truthfully, though, what is the difference between a dungeon cell and a luxury room when it's in the Capitol? Or rather, when one is a tribute in the Capitol?

Tribute, prisoner. It's the same thing. Prisoners are trapped with nowhere to go; tributes are no different. Either way I will die or become a killer simply because the Capitol wants to have some _fun_. How is that any different than being a prisoner in a jail cell?

I didn't think I would miss home as badly as I do. The incessant shouting of my siblings seems like music to me now. God. I'd give anything to be verbally berated by Azura right now, or have a pair of scissors thrown at me down the hallway by, well; most of them have done it at one point or another. I miss Jasper and Lillie, my quirky friends.

Hell, I even miss Steffi.

'_Your parents can't force you to marry me if you become a victor.'_

Her parting words to me come back to my mind as I lie there and stare at the ceiling. I add 'freedom to be single' to my list of reasons to win. I can give Jas and Lillie's families more extra money when they need it. My family is well-off as it is, I can use my victor money to help out families all over District 9- maybe even donate large amounts to the orphanages. Or better yet. Pay the orphanage workers more money. Maybe then they'll take care of the children properly.

I hate seeing the kids from the community homes in school. They're bruised, always. Abuse.

I suddenly feel really lucky to have had the life I've had. Even _if_I die in the arena at least I was happy in my life. Despite the rough patches, I've had a good life.

I went mostly deaf from a mass assassination attempt- so what? At least I didn't die. I'm physically attacked at least twice a year by someone that my father has fired- no big deal. That's why I've had self-defense training. At least I'm not starving, or abused.

If I die. At least I had a good run.

I hum the tune to The Swallow and softly sing the last verse;

_Una croce a primavera_

_Troverai su questo suolo:_

_Swallow, in the shades of evening_

_Let my last poor wish be granted:_

_Circle round my narrow dwelling,_

_While thy song of peace is telling._


	21. The Lion Tamer

**Here you go! Another chapter in the Capitol. IRL situations have progressively gotten worse. I'm going to go sob in a corner now and immerse myself in work so I don't get super depressed.-Phoenix.**

**Next update Thursday.**

* * *

**Canicus Macaulay of District 1  
**

**Training Day 2**

**Written by II-Gen3sis-II**

* * *

"_I never thought much of the courage of a lion tamer. Inside the cage he is at least safe from people."_

—George Bernard Shaw quotes (Irish literary Critic, Playwright and Essayist. 1925 Nobel Prize for Literature, 1856-1950)

* * *

**Gen's A/N: **

**Hey guys, I really appreciate all the positive responses from you guys about Canicus. I feel very grateful. As a side note, I did feel the need to clear up one thing regarding his name. No, it's not a traditional District One naming convention. And I did that on purpose. For the reasons as to why, it falls under his characterization if you pay close enough attention. Anywho, without further ado I present to you pack picking day! Otherwise known as Training Day 2.**

* * *

If there is anything I am certain of, my mentor, Ava Hobbs, is trying to kill me. Not in the direct sense of her coming into my room at night and suffocating me with a pillow, but in the sense that she is intentionally trying to force me to recruit and lead the other Career district tributes for this year's alliance.

Let me say something: trying to lead a Career pack is like trying to lead a pack of feral, starving lions. They hold no alliance but to themselves. If it suits them, they'll gang up and take out their prey, have their fill of the spoils, and then turn on each other for the rest of the kill and glory. It isn't something that I want to be a part of; it is too much of a liability to my own survival, but apparently I have no choice in the matter.

Before I leave for training that day, Ava gives me a small piece of paper with the names of those tributes I need to ally myself with. There is also the threat of total annihilation in the arena if I don't approach these people, which is rather counter-productive to winning and going home. So, as I walk with my district partner towards the elevator, with that small slip of white paper between my fingers, I can't help but have a grim look on my face.

Speaking of which, when Admire found out that I was to be the pack leader, she threw a fit. Not a little, whining fit perfect for a self-dubbed princess, oh no. It was a huge screaming fest of why I shouldn't be leader and how she was fitter to lead than I was, the list of reasons went on. Now, up until this point, I have avoided the girl at all costs except when absolutely necessary, like meal time. To say that we can't stand each other was also one of the biggest understatements ever. The only reason we haven't gone at each others throats was due to the drive for either of us to win. And the only way we could do that immediately was to kill everyone else first. There might have been some unspoken district pride thrown in the mix too, but really, that wasn't necessary to point out at the time. I can also say that seeing her disgruntled and pissed off about me having more power than her is more than slightly satisfying. If I can control her to a point, I can do that with the rest of the group. So, by extension, I can use that to my advantage.

"As much as I don't want to say this, I'm in the pack this year. No questions asked," Admire says as the lift went downwards towards the training rooms.

I have the decency to snort in amusement while rolling my eyes. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

Leave it to her to demand instead of ask. I have to wonder exactly what caused her to have such a large stick up her ass. But alas, lucky me, I won't need to find out. So long as she listens to me when the time comes so we can take out all the other tributes, everything will be fine. However, unluckily for me, she is going to make this whole process ten times more difficult. Why? Because she knows it'll irk me. And the only way for me to ignore it is to remind myself of the conversation my sister and I had before I left on the train.

* * *

My eyes scan the luxurious—even for my standards—room. A plush red velvet sofa sits under the right window, a large, deep red oak desk stood to my right, hundreds of random books I had never heard of sat on many shelves to my left, all the way up to the ceiling. However, there is the very distinct feeling of dust in the room, like it hadn't been used in a long time. That in itself didn't make much sense as tributes were put in these rooms within the Justice Building every year. Despite popular thought, I had to wonder if they intentionally left it dusty for some twisted, strange reason. A part of me ponders the thought if Roy Rousseau sat here in this very room that I now stood in. Almost immediately I feel a chill creep up my spine at the thought as I stare out the window. I'm not one to think of ghosts or life after death, but the more I stood in this room, I couldn't help but try to shake the unfamiliar feeling of death in the air.

Thoughts are interrupted when the door opens behind me; I turn to find my little sister running at me with her full, ten-year-old frame. I can't help but smile at her which she returns in full force as she launches herself into my arms. I chuckle at her as she giggles in what seems to be excitement.

"You got your wish," she says after a moment as I set her down back on her feet.

"That I did. Now you get to be the big boss on campus," I joke back to her, poking her forehead.

She swats my hand away with a mock scowl, "I know, which is why you get to stop treating me like a little girl now."

"Serafina, you're always going to be my little sister, you know." My simple answer came, and before she could retort, I look at her seriously and continue, "Regardless, now that I'm going to be gone, I'm going to need to you to study and train hard. And I mean harder than I ever did in my time here at home. People are going to try and get close to you in the case I do make it far in the games and have the possibility of winning. Your training is even more crucial in the event that I don't. You need to be strong and stay strong. Be someone that our parents can be proud of and don't take crap from anyone. Promise?"

Serafina looks back at me long and hard for a moment, and I have to wonder if she even heard anything that I said. But ever so slowly, as the words sink in that there was always the possibility of me not coming back, she nods.

"I will. But you need to promise me one thing in return," her eyes are firm and full of confidence; there's the sister I know.

"What's that?" I ask her.

"You need to promise that you also won't take crap from anyone, that you will absolutely ignore those who try to get under your skin. Use their weaknesses to your advantage. And come back home; you need to win Can," my sister counters in almost one breath.

All I could do was pull her back against me in a tight hug and answer, "Of course I will."

Serafina looks up at me with her bright blue eyes, and that's when I realize that she's growing up too fast. And now that I'm not going to be here to protect her from the known bullies here at home, she has to continue to grow up quickly. I just hope my parents will help her in doing so. I know mother will, but our father…he makes me wonder. He's always so dead-set in his ways. That's why I took most of his obsessive nature towards myself instead of my sister. Now that I'll be gone, I'm concerned he'll start to take that nature out on her. Our father isn't inherently bad, but there are things that I don't want my sister to deal with.

"Are mom and dad coming?" I find myself asking, wanting to talk to them about my sister's welfare.

"They should be here soon," she answers.

It's then that the door opens and a Peacekeeper comes in.

"Time's up," he announces, and my sister and I hug one last time before she's escorted out.

"Kick some ass, Can!" is the last thing I hear from her before the door slams shut.

* * *

Day two of training is pretty much more of the same thing as day one. More weaponry usage, more survival stations; it's everything we need to win in the arena. However, this time I had to take the time to note all the names on the slip of paper Ava had given me this morning. Creon, the asshole, was all up in arms about how Admire and I need to at least pretend to get along for publicity sake after seeing her meltdown at finding out my leadership position. I would have given said position to her if I could, but it's somewhat of a sick pleasure of mine to see her squirm. I also have to admit that seeing Creon turn all red and splutter like he was a madman was also entertaining as hell. Hey, I have to find some entertainment from somewhere. There are only so many times I can find amusement in the Capitol citizens as a whole.

Taking a look at my list, the first name printed was a kid named Jet Matthews from District Two. From my sparring station with a pair of swords, I glance around, coming to find his bright hair at the nearest station to me dedicated to making traps. When I first got a look at him on day one of training, he didn't seem like a whole lot. Pretty lanky, ginger hair, no real muscle to speak of, so I have to wonder why Ava wants him in the pack. Is there something darker that we just couldn't see outright? If Ava wants him, there has to be something redeeming, some quality that Jet has that she wants to utilize. I'm just not sure what. And I have no choice in the matter, either. Granted, she did say that after the people on the list I could add anyone else I wanted, technically speaking. But in reality, I don't really want to. With six names, including my own on the list already, the pack was big enough, but that doesn't mean I still can't look. It's rather like window shopping.

As I watch Jet in the midst of making a rather deadly trap, I keep myself busy with the training dummies. But the more I watch him, the more I realize that he seems to be talking bitterly out loud to himself. I can't quite make out what he's saying, as I'm still a bit too far away, and he's speaking under his breath. Either way, something seems just a bit off. So, for now, I keep my distance, opting to spar with one of the trainers instead of the dummies, sans swords. It's a pity, really; I like utilizing weaponry. Oh well, I can still create enough pain empty-handed. It's a skill our drill instructors back home made sure we knew before we were even allowed to pick up our first weapon.

The bell dings, and I immediately run at my instructor full force, knocking into him roughly. I hear him grunt, but he doesn't go down, trying to wrap his arms around my midsection in order to flip me over his shoulder. I retaliate with a swift kick to his left knee, and when I hear a crack, I know I had done some damage. The adrenaline coursing through my veins comes in full force, addicting in nature, and I want more. My instructor goes down with a groan, but he's not done yet. He gets back at me by side swiping my feet, knocking me to the ground on my back. I can almost feel all the eyes of the others on me, sizing me up, seeing what I was capable of.

Off to my right, I can see Admire smirking devilishly at me, taunting me. I feel the need to growl under my breath at being knocked down. Nobody knocks me down and gets away with it. Here's a Capitol instructor who's able to retaliate with no repercussion whatsoever. Yeah, that's not going to happen. I'm not about to let him show me up. I snarl and flip myself upward, barreling toward my opponent in a silent rage. It's like blinders had been put on my vision; all I could see was a red haze. He has to suffer. He has to feel pain. The scuffle is instantaneous. When I tackle him, it isn't just about showing him who's boss, that he won't be able to get the better of me. It's to show him that I _can_ kill him, and I intend to use him as an example to everyone else.

By the time I get him in a headlock, Peacekeepers are already running in my direction, but all I can see is wanting his blood. Wanting him to not dare to fuck with me. The red haze becoming thicker like a red wine, powerful and addicting in nature.

It takes two Peacekeepers to pry my arms off from around his neck. It takes another two Peacekeepers to pull me away. I watch as my opponent's face turns back from the purple-red color I had been giving to his natural color, and I despise it. He deserves to be the colors I gave him. Even more importantly, he deserves to see the blackness of unconsciousness.

The head instructor for the entire training arena comes over to me and slaps his hands together in my face to get my attention, and it unfortunately worked. The thrill of the red haze leaves my vision, leaving me breathless and pissed off.

"You're benched for 30 minutes. Cool off or you'll be facing consequences for your actions," he growls out as I glare at him.

Huffing, I pull myself free from the two assholes that keep me from going back into the sparring arena to get back at the guy who showed me up, heading towards the benches against the wall. I ignore the stares that ensued, both Gamemakers and tributes alike. They matter little to me now. I had shown what I had needed to show. I just have to keep reminding myself of that, even though it isn't doing much help in calming me down. The only thing that started to remotely help me was sitting down on the bench and staring at everyone else train. Well, the bad news is that Ava was definitely going to find out about this one and will most likely yell at me for it and threaten my demise. The good news is I have the chance to really take in the rest of my supposed allies.

Admire is already in the group. She is on the list, and she stated as such. So I can check her off of my list and be done with it. Right now, she's having some fun with the projectile weaponry station. I have to admit, she has pretty good aim. I'd have to take note of that for later. As for the rest, that would come in due time. I just know I have to get these people confirmed before the day's over. With my eyes continuing to scan for the other traditionals, my eyes fall on the male tribute from District 12 at the knot-tying station. He just seemed to be sitting there, staring absentmindedly while he worked on some knot work. His gaze was seemingly glazed over, not really paying attention to anything but the work in his hands. I couldn't help but find that weird and somewhat creepy.

Shaking my head clear of those thoughts, I close my eyes and sigh, leaning my head back against the white-washed, sterile-feeling wall. I'm starting to get antsy, my left foot lightly tapping on the floor in anticipation in finally being allowed to go do things again. Within my hands I absentmindedly fiddle with my list, having it slide between each of my fingers, the weight of it getting heavier each time with liability. God, I hate liabilities. At least when I was with Augustus and Artemis I knew what they were capable of, what their strengths and weaknesses were. So now, besides my district partner, and even then the feeling was minimal, I have to go in almost blind with the districts two and four. I don't like it. It makes me rather on edge, and I've almost _never_ had to deal with that type of feeling.

My eyes snap open when I hear the sound of footsteps coming near my bench. Glancing over to my right, I see one of my other already defined allies coming towards me. Despite my outburst, apparently some tributes still aren't afraid enough to approach me. It's a pity, really. I enjoy giving others the feeling of anxiety and other negative emotions. Probably too much in the eyes of some. Either way, it doesn't matter right now; I have another job to do that involves finding out if the male approaching is in the pack or not. There will be plenty of time for my inner musings in a bit.

"Care to verify your name for me?" I ask as he approaches me, my fingers ever so quietly unfolding my paper.

"And by that question Ah'm assuming yah were made pack leader," the currently still undefined male asks back.

"In a manner of speaking. Are you in or are you out?" I follow up, not really wanting to deal with so many questions.

"Depends, what's 'n it for me?"

Ah, there it was; the starving lion mentality. I inwardly growl in annoyance as my eyes probe the eyes of the other male. Everything is about what they could get out of being in the pack. While I do agree on some level, it's still bothersome that I keep getting attitude from everyone else. I'd have to change that real quickly, and a part of me was already starting to formulate how. But first, I have to get off this bench, and secondly, I have to get through this conversation.

"Surviving the first few days without getting your neck snapped," I answer pointedly and harshly.

The silence between me and the kid is almost stifling; you can almost cut the tension with a butter knife. All I can hear behind me was the clashing of metal against metal in the weaponry station and the smell of fire smoke permeating the air from the survival station. Hard green eyes meet and hold a deep brown and blue pair of eyes. I dare him to say anything smart-ass-y or in contradiction to what I've just said. If I don't exhume leadership qualities now, no one will listen to me. It almost makes me smile as I watch the wheels in his head size me up, decide if I was telling the truth or not and if that deal was a good one to make. If he's smart, he'll take the offering.

"Con Rossencourte. Ah'm in," he finally speaks before shifting from one foot to the other and starting to walk away towards another station.

I watch him leave with a dark look on my face. He's going to be trouble. I hate trouble. Luckily, it's shortly after that confrontation that I'm allowed to get up again and train until lunch time. By that time, I hope to have more names checked off. So far, it was three for three, including myself. That isn't completely terrible.

Picking up a pair of daggers, I feel the unfamiliar weight within my palm, twisting the handle around to gauge its potency. It's more out of curiosity than anything else. I can utilize anything with a blade of this size to bring about excruciating pain and death.

The two tributes from ten and boy tribute from three eye me as I flip my weaponry around to test the fit. It's almost like they're wondering if I'm going to blow up again and beat the living daylights out of someone. The thought of that makes me want to smirk like the devil and prove them correct. But as I mull over the idea of just how to do that, and also prove my point to my other allies, I feel a dark and ice cold chill go down my spine. It was unlike anything else I had ever felt before, even more badly than the chill I had during my final visit at home. It's like a thousand knives are cutting deep into my back, and I can't do anything about it. I have to find the source of this extremely uncomfortable feeling.

And I do. It's in the form of the Head Gamemaker's bright sea-foam green eyes staring straight at me. While they're bright, they hold a dark and dangerous look within their depths. An unreadable expression is on her face as she looks directly into my own orbs, and I can't help but start to feel completely lost in them. But I feel as if she's staring straight through me, daring me to show her what I was capable of. It's like her eyes are setting me on fire, like I'm burning from the inside out. All of which are compounded in my scarred upper arm. I hate how I can almost see the sinister yet powerful aura that hovers around her body. But, at the same time, it's just as addicting, almost as addicting as when I cause pain unto others. I want more.

Without a word, I break the spell she had woven, immediately throwing one knife into the heart of one training dummy, a loud _thunk_ sounding off as it gets embedded deep within the material. It's followed up quickly by the other dagger sinking in with a sickening thud to the dummies head. But I'm not done yet. Picking up two more daggers nearby, I proceed to first hack off the arm that wasn't burning and throbbing like my own. The phantom pain drove me to sink my daggers repeatedly into the arm that did match my scarred one. It's like I had become possessed; possessed with the desire to rip off the scarred skin so I never had to see it again. And it's _her_ fault I want to do this. It reminds me of how my father freaked out on me during his and my mother's last conversation as a family during final goodbyes.

* * *

"I swear to God you better come home, boy," my father had spat immediately upon entering the room with my mother.

"Don't worry about it. I will," I had replied coolly, crossing my arms with a glare in place, "although I'm surprised you let Serafina come in by herself. Did she insist or could you not stand to be in public with her?"

Almost immediately, my back was slammed against the edge of the window sill, my father's breath in my face, "watch yourself, boy. Serafina hasn't overcome her weak will to kill without remorse. You're the pride of our family. You're the one who will shut all of those who would oppose us by winning this year."

I couldn't help but snarl at the man who I shared half of my genes with. "Yeah? So that way you keep your perfect family in place?"

I had wanted to piss him off. I had wanted him to take that anger out on me so he wouldn't do it to my sister. She didn't deserve that.

"Canicus," my mother chided and my glare turned towards her.

"_What?!_ It's true, and you know it! He can't stand to not have the perfect family. He can't stand the fact that Serafina isn't as deadly as I was when I was her age. He can't stand the sight of her nor the sight of me because of a stupid injury that left me scarred. _Admit it!_ Admit that you can't stand us, Dad, it'll make leaving here _so_ much easier!" I shot back with force, pushing my father back enough so the wood wouldn't dig into my back anymore.

"You better win," he answered darkly, "We have a reputation to uphold, and with that scarring of yours, it makes you look weak. I better not see that in the arena, or else you just better not come home at all." And with that, he left without another word.

"He doesn't mean that, Canicus," my mother spoke up after a tense silence.

Even then, her words sounded hesitant, unsure.

"Yeah right, Mom. He means every single word that spews out of his goddamn mouth," I replied, all semblance of continuing to tell myself that my father was still a good man gone from my thoughts.

He's not a good man. He's allowed his obsessive nature to destroy his family from the inside out. It's disgusting.

"If there is nothing else you have to say, leave. But if I come back and I find out that dad has destroyed Serafina, I'll make his life a living hell, and by extension, yours for not protecting her like you should."

And she had left without another word.

* * *

My breathing is labored as I fight to catch my breath. The training dummy I had taken my anger out on was coming off of the pedestal it was attached to. The burning from my scarring still isn't gone, so I know that I still had Head Gamemaker Phoenix's attention. A loud crack is heard as I shove the two daggers, one on each side, into the crook of the dummy's neck before turning to stare straight back into her eyes. I feel confident now, more confident than I had felt before unleashing my pent-up anger. So, as I stare at her point-blank, I watch that deadly yet pretty mouth of hers stretch into a sinister smirk. It's like I had made her day.

Pulling down my sleeve that only halfway covered my burns, I tore my gaze away from the Gamemaker's box, only to find four tributes from the outer districts staring at me almost totally petrified.

"What're you looking at?" I growl, glaring at them.

The addicting power of anger and revenge continues to course through my veins as I watch the others quickly and quietly get back to what they were doing. I have to thank Phoenix for that rush of power. I want more of that, what she had to offer, that rush. And as the day wears on, my outburst seems to have the desired effect. I have effectively startled the non-Career districts, and I have gained the attention of those that I needed to: Jet, Roulla, and Sade. When it comes to Con and Admire, they're less than pleased. Admire has her distinct cocky sneer on her face, and Con has a look of pure annoyance.

Roulla comes to me right as lunch time came around. Apparently I hadn't effected her that much as she seems more than okay to come up beside me with her own plate.

"I'm in," she states simply as she grabs some water and follows me to our apparently dubbed Career table.

"Alright," I answer and mentally mark her off my list, "if you have anything negative to say about me being pack leader let me know now. I don't care to have comments flying behind my back."

"Don't worry about me. I don't have any issues with you leading," she replies and sits down on the bench, "however, I can't say the same for Con or your district partner."

I snort in agreement. "Well, they can just deal with it. If they have such an issue with it, then they should have said no."

"Said no to what, almighty _leader?_" Admire's voice stresses as she sits down.

I want so badly to snap her neck right there. "You know what? You need to stop having your pretty panties in a bunch just because you didn't get what you wanted."

Admire bares her teeth, not unlike that of a wild animal ready to strike. "You're such an asshole."

"And you just now figured this out?" I question as I begin to zone her out and eat my food.

Jet, Sade, and Con join us at our table soon after, all of us eating in silence. I didn't really care to have any real alliance discussion just yet. There are too many variables coming into play. The first being that I hadn't confirmed two of the three people who just sat down, and didn't intend to yet because I was in the middle of eating, and the second being the other districts were nearby and could hear everything we said. So, it's either plan with people I didn't trust on a basic level yet and have our enemies overhear us or wait until we were able to meet in a more private setting closer to launch time. I want to go with the latter so that the possibility of information leaking is smaller.

However, Con has other ideas.

"Ah think Bren and Lucian from three an' twelve should join us," he suddenly speaks up, breaking the silence.

I don't look up at him as I take a bite out of my sandwich. "I'm not discussing this right now, Con. Too many people can overhear if they really want to."

Roulla watches the exchange between us in mute interest while Admire scoffs and shakes her head.

"Well, I'd talk to you about it, Con, if I were in his place," I hear my district partner say with a hint of attitude in the tone.

"Unfortunately for you, you're not," I shoot back scathingly, "and to put this conversation to an end, I have my list and I'm sticking to it. Anyone else not on the list is too much of a liability, and I'm not going to have this be a gang of morons trampling through the arena where anyone can pick us off. End of discussion."

"Ah don't see why they'd be a lierbility. Each has a strength that we could use," Con counters, trying to sell me on the idea of changing my mind.

Bren had already said no, and I found Lucian to be too odd during my observation of him at the knot station all day, but I wasn't going to tell Con that. There is no reason to, and he doesn't need to know everything that I had done today.

"The answer is still no," I say with finality, "and you need to learn your place."

Our table is tensely silent after that. I can feel the annoyance radiating off of Con in waves, and I can also feel Admire seething under that skin of hers. As I sit here at the table with all of us together, I begin to realize why it was decided that I would be pack leader this year. Ava wanted someone in charge that could handle bullshit, blatant disrespect, and general verbal abuse. Maybe she had seen through my father's ruse of a perfect family and saw who he really was as well as how he treated his kids. In a way, it's actually rather vindicating to think about.

After lunch is when things really began to pick up for my verification for the last two people. It comes in the form of a rather interesting confrontation, one that I wasn't exactly expecting. For the remaining time we have to train, I take it upon myself to work on some survival skills. In particular, finding and identifying different wild plants and berries I could eat. During my lesson, I have taken it upon myself to stare a few berries, each looking almost identical, and the goal was to figure out which one was edible out of the three, two of which were poisonous. I had narrowed it down to two when I hear a conversation start to my left. Looking up, I lock my gaze in on Sade from District Two and Anya from District Eight.

Anya looks like she's about ready to topple over as she speaks out loud, words just slightly slurred. Is she actually _drunk_? Is her mentor seriously allowing her to come down into training totally uninhibited and visibly unable to train properly? That's utterly ridiculous and stupid on their part, and it'll definitely cost them a tribute or two. As it is, I keep my eye on Sade to watch how she'll react to this confrontation. It's partly out of curiosity and partly out of studying her to see how she deals with other people. That would give me an indication on how she'll interact with the rest of us.

"Hey," Anya slurs, poking Sade straight in the collarbone, "I ha-aaave a _bone_ to pick with you."

Sade seems to raise an eyebrow, and a frown adorns her lips. "Am I supposed to care? I don't even know you."

"Gosh, you're _so_ loud," District Eight whined, "you think you're _sooooo_ perfect. It's annoying."

The girl Career scoffs and rolls her eyes, coming back around to glare at the girl before her, "Your opinion doesn't matter to me. Go away."

Unfortunately, Anya doesn't. In fact, she gets rather pissed and starts to raise her voice.

"Ugh, you're such a slut."

Immediately, I get up from my spot and stride over to Sade before she attacks Anya for her comment.

"You know _nothing_ about me, Eight," Sade growls and Anya smirks in a taunting fashion.

"What're you hiding, Two? You seem pretty defensive for someone who has nothing to hide."

Sade pushes against my hold on her shoulders, and I hear someone else approach us. When I look, it was Eric from District 11 who stands between Sade and myself, and Anya.

"She's drunk, Sade," I let her know, "Let it go. It's not worth getting benched before the day is over. You can get back at her when we're in the arena."

"I'm _not_ DRERNK," she counters, and Eric tells her to hush before looking at Sade.

"Saw your Uncle on the day of the reaping," he says, voice deep, strong, and holding a dark undertone, "seemed he wanted create more hell than he already has for our home."

"And your point? You'll be dead soon, so it won't matter," Sade snaps, and Eric's glare darkens.

"Watch yourself; I'll see you Careers in the arena, especially you, Sade," he threatens back with a hand on Anya's arm.

"Hey! Break it up!" A few Peacekeepers come running over.

"Don't worry about it. There's nothing here to break up," I explain while giving Eric a look.

He's definitely now on my list of people to watch out for.

We each pull one of the girls away before they could do any bodily harm to one another. My grip on Sade's shoulders lessens, but I can tell that she's still really pissed off. There isn't much else I could say or do to make it better for her, so I begin to walk back towards my station.

"Canicus!" she calls out, turning in my direction and folding her arms across her chest.

"Yeah?"

"I'm absolutely, without a doubt, in with the pack this year. I want to make someone's life hell."

I salute with two fingers towards her, "done and done."

One more person to go in my quest to finish this crap before we're done training for the day. This is turning into a huge clusterfuck of issues, and we haven't even made it through to the arena yet. A part of me wonders just how bad this is going to get. Admire and I can't get along worth our lives. She always has some comment in defiance. Then there's Con who also questions every single comment and decision I make. Who knows how he and Roulla get along. Then there's Sade who seemed to have a drive to make hell with Eric from Eleven and Anya from Eight. And now there's Jet to contend with. I have a feeling he'll be just as difficult to deal with if everyone else I've dealt with today was any indication.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair as the head trainer called for everyone's attention to end today's training session. Shit, I hadn't gotten to Jet in time. Ava's going to throw a fit and make _my _life a living hell tonight. Admire will get a kick out of it for sure. I'm not looking forward to that in the slightest. But, as I realized fully after dealing with people today, if anyone else in our pack is picked as leader, it'll fall apart faster than last year's pack did. Hell, I don't even really know if I could really control them enough yet to keep us as one cohesive unit. I'd just have to wait and see.

Setting down the tools I was using to help carry the berries to their proper place, I begin making my way back toward the lifts to go up to my district floor. Admire hangs back, which wasn't surprising. I didn't want to go up with her either. Well, at least I get to deal with Ava by myself. That'll make the whole scenario seem just a tad nicer. When the lift doors open, I step inside, only to find that I'm going to be accompanied by none other than the person I still need to talk to: Jet.

At first, as the doors slide shut and we begin our assent upwards, things were silent between us. I didn't look at him and he didn't look at me. But when the doors open on my floor, and before I step out, he finally spoke. His words were simple and to the point.

"Yes."

And the doors slide shut as the lift moves upwards again.

All six of us are in the pack. My job is complete, and Ava won't kick my ass for once. The thought is nice and it brought a smirk to my face. Jet was the only one who hadn't bullshit me today. Well, besides Roulla, but the difference is that Jet didn't sugarcoat or add any unnecessary words. I'm very appreciative of that. I have started off today hating the job that was thrust upon me at the last moment. I still hate it. But this time, now that the day is over and I know how everyone is going to be acting, I feel that I could somewhat start to get a handle on it.

I just hope that it'll be sooner rather than later when my life wasn't on the line.

* * *

"_I was not the lion, but it fell to me to give the lion's roar."_

_—_Winston Churchill quotes (British Orator, Author and Prime Minister during World War II. 1874-1965)


	22. An Apology

I typically don't do this, but I am. This is Phoenix Refrain here. I'm sorry we haven't updated in...liek forever. some very serious stuff has been going on IRL. I've had two computer problems/crashing, very big IRL family drama and the past week I've been in the hospital five times for allergic reactions.

I'm taken so much benadryl and stuff it's crazy. Thank you so much for being patient. We are hoping, baring any more medical or otherwise emergencies to start back updating this Wednesday- Saturday.

Much love, Nina/Phoenix/Mama Badger.

But please hang with us! We'll be back up in a few days!


	23. Let's Try the Long Con

Paste your document here...

Thanks for bearing with us. There are some serious medical issues that I, Phoenix Refrain, am going through. In short-allergic reactions, losing my hair because they think my thyroid medicine is causing the allergic reactions. We should be back on track more now. Next chapter will be Wednesday/possibly Thursday.

We've revised some things we're doing, more info about that later. Thank you for bearing with us.

From now on, response from reviews will be sent from a different account-accessed by some of our authors. It will be called 24Tributes,24Authors Review Response Team. There will be three people on there that will respond to your reviews and clear up anything in the chapter that they can. They do not have access to the main account so all of those questions please come here. Thank you so much for bearing with us. More new updates will be coming over the next few days, to let you know how we're streamlining this etc.

Thank you for your prayers!

* * *

**Day Two Evening**

**Con Rossencourte of District Four**

**by pacman23**

* * *

**Kate: Why do you have to do this?  
Sawyer: You run. I con. A tiger don't change their stripes.**

**Lost's episode "The Long Con"**

* * *

There's a little thing that you learn about people when you've worked in business as long as I have. There's no such thing as a customer you can't win over or a situation you can't make good. Sure some folks are more difficult than others. Some fellas only need a cheerful wink or a certain word to convince them that they need what you've got, while others take hours of constant bonding before they build up enough trust or courage to even talk to you, but all of them will buy from you eventually if you just persevere.

Over the years the Doc taught me about these sort of things. He taught me how to spot an easy sell, how to pick my battles, and when I needed to get help to close a deal. I became a master at using my head to work out how to manipulate the masses of District Four in whichever ways I wanted. I even started applying the same principals to my Career training, trying to find a way to turn every circumstance I came across in my favour.

But clearly I haven't had enough practice, because this whole training thing just baffles me!

I mean, I have absolutely no idea how to make this work in my favour!

It's not like I haven't considered my options. I thought about focusing my efforts on what I do best, but that wouldn't have helped me. I tried just standing back and watching what everyone else was doing, but I don't want to focus on a bunch of kids who could just end up as Bloodbaths. Heck, I even contemplated trading weapons for favours, but that just doesn't work. After all, no one's stupid enough to buy an axe when there's a whole wrack of weapons in the corner they could use for free. Even if the guy trading with them is as good looking as me.

In the end all I've managed to do in the past two days is drift aimlessly from station to station, learning a little at one and a little at another. I've been to every single station twice and chatted to almost every trainer and, after all of that, I still can't work out how to work these godforsaken training sessions to my advantage.

You see there's one problem with these training sessions. One thing that I can't work my way around no matter how many options I contemplate or how long I spend training.

Training is boring.

I mean I've done this a thousand times already. I've used knives, swords and axes every day of the year since I started Career training. I've swam, I've fought, I've run every obstacle course. This is just more of the same.

And the same just bores me.

I reach the exit after a day in the gym, holding the door open with a smile for the boy from Three. The boy scowls and clenches his fists. I nod my head and try to make my smile wider. Canicus must have written him off as some Bloodbath. Really I'm not so sure. I mean Three looks kind of scrawny but they intrigue me. From what I saw of the pair of them today, they don't seem too bad. It would have been nice to get a chance to talk to the pair, just to see what they were like but, because I'm a Career, the pair seem to avoid me as much as they can, which is a crying shame. I did overhear the girl talking to herself though and the boy hissed a few threats at a trainer who insulted his sword fighting skills this morning.

If anything the pair of them seem more unhinged than they do pathetic. Not that I'm scared of them or anything, but if it ever came to a life or death situation between us and District Three, I'd let Canicus handle it.

The corridor in front of me is dark and, if I'm honest, kind of creepy. There are posters stuck to practically every surface and leaflets detailing various tributes and victors but, in the dark of the rapidly falling dusk, they don't look nearly as inviting as they did this a morning ago when I first passed them. Scooping one up with one hand I leaf through it. There are a few hot chicks in here, most of them Victors, Escorts or Non-Career girls. Roulla looks just as plain and severe as she did when I apologised to her on the train ride over. I flinch slightly, remembering her gaze.

After training, Canicus had swept right up into his room. I shake my head. Man, was I glad I got away from that dude.

As much as I like Canicus, I know who he is and the relationship we share. We're not mentor and student, we're not friends, heck, we're not even family! Sure, he seems to just be trying to get the Careers together, but we have separate plans and motivations, and both of those rely on the other one of us being dead. The way he sees it, I'm just here to make sure he doesn't die until he feels like killing me off.

But thing is, I'm a Career too. Not the strongest Career, to be fair, but I'm fast and I'm not ready to go down without a fight.

If he wants to get rid of me he'll need to know my enemies and, while me and Roulla are OK now, I'd be happier if he never finds out we ever argued. The way I see it, if we can present a unified front, there's no way Canicus will be able to work out how to take me down.

But that doesn't mean the others won't be able to, I think, pushing the door of the bathroom open, needing to go there after Training, and strutting in, head held high. Sade and Jet and that Bren guy and his District partner Maeve Morghal, they creep me out.

Canicus is a dumb chump who'll buy any half-baked excuse I chuck his way, I chuckle to myself. But I really don't know the others. For all I know they're actually smart and, if they are, I'm going to need a backup plan. A backup alliance.

Well, maybe backup alliance is a little extreme. What I need is more like a few faithful friends inside the Careers alliance, who can be on my side if everyone else turns against me. Careers'll never help with that, being too arrogant and egotistical to take orders from anyone for too long. It makes sense after all, not helping everyone else out. I mean there's no way anyone with half a brain would help me! I'm looking for people who are trustworthy in a Game where kids kill one another. That's not going to be an easy task! The only people who are ever going to help me are the dumb and the desperate. People who are either too stupid to question my orders or too intent to live that few seconds longer that they don't have the spine to stand up to me. Normally I wouldn't know where to start but, fortunately for me, the lower Districts have both types of those people in spades.

Once I have washed my hands, I stare eagerly around the bathroom, noting a pair of other teens, both about my age and both considerably taller than me standing by the taps. They look quite similar, although one is thinner, with paler skin and darker hair. The shorter of the pair, some kid from Twelve, turns his eyes on me. His piercing gaze falls on me and I grimace. He's far too clever for a goon and too scrawny for a thug so I guess that just leaves accomplice.

"Sure hope you pair can hold your weight," I mutter to myself as I advance on the pair, sweeping my hair over my gray eye as I go. According to the Doc, people trust kids with blue eyes. Don't know if that's true, I mean I've never noticed it, but, hell, the Doc said it, so it must be a subconscious thing.

Sure there are probably better goons out there, but I've got to start somewhere, and where better to start than in the bathroom?

Anywhere, my brain tells me, and I chuckle, flipping my coin for good luck. If Canicus finds out I'm doing this, man am I dead.

"Something funny?" Twelve asks, his eyes following the coin as it travels first up, then down, landing in my palm. I place the coolest smile I can on my lips and lock eyes with him, trying to judge what he's thinking. He doesn't make eye contact, and instead follows my coin, which I am passing nervously from one hand to the other, visions of Canicus crushing my skull passing through my mind even as I prepare my speech.

"Something funny?" the boy repeats, a small smile tugging at his thin lips. The other boy, having dried his hands, turns to me too, a quizzical frown gracing his features.

"Nothing's funny," I say with another chuckle. "Ah'm just loving these Games, you know, wanted to share my joy with the lot of you."

"How nice," the other boy replies, his own smile growing as he follows my coin. "Would you like to tell me what you're really feeling?"

"What Ah'm really feeling," I back off slightly, I wasn't expecting that kind of response, "How do you think Ah'm feeling, mate?"

"Lucian," The boy from Twelve tells me. "It's Lucian. And how you're feeling?" He takes a look at me, gives me a thin lipped smile and then begins to pace around me, sniffing the air. With a single motion he touches my chest and I recoil slightly, pushing the lanky teen away. "You're tense, but relaxed." He tells me. "Slightly increased heart rate, but not much." Snickering, I stalk over to the wash basins and lean back.

"Are you going to tell me how Ah feel then, Mr. Psychiatrist? Or are you just gonna quote confusing gibberish at me?" I tilt my head to stare at him but he turns away.

"You keep trying to look me in the eye. And that smile of yours is rather irritating." Lucian says, a hint of a snarl in his voice, "It's like you're trying to sell me something..."

"Rahght you are, mah boy!" I roar, with such ferocity and excitement that the pair takes a step back, exchanging worried glances. "Hit the nail rahght on the head!"

"You're selling something?" Lucian asks. "That's stupid, this is the Hunger Games."

"And that's exactly why Ah'm selling, or should Ah say, good sirs, offering, this unique opportunity."

"Opportunity, huh?" the other teen inquires, suspicion etched on his face. He looks familiar, but I can't quite place him. "What sort of opportunity?"

"A wonderful one." He scoffs, so I decide to cut straight to the chase. There's no point in keeping a customer waiting. "How would you two lahke to join the Careers alliance?" The two instantly back off slightly. I bet the two of them never thought anyone would ask them to join our little alliance, or rather my little alliance.

God, I hope Canicus doesn't hear about this.

"You're District Four." The paler boy, Lucian, states, his face betraying no emotion other than mild interest.

"Con Rossencourte at your service," I beam. "Fahnest District Four has to offer."

"No." I turn to stare at the more muscular of the two. The defiant growl spread across his face is so familiar.

"Pardon?" I inquire, cocking an eyebrow, a pointless gesture since the gray eye it's above is covered by hair.

"I said no," the boy states. "Not interested. I don't need the Careers alliance, it didn't help District Ten last year and, from what my mentors say, it won't help me. After all, Aleah won without any help."

Armani.

Instantly, I realise where I've seen this boy before. It was last year, watching him cheer his psychopathic sister after she returned home to her District. This must be that Sean kid, brother of last year's victor.

"Well, well, Sean," I say, stepping up on to tiptoe so I can wrap an arm around over his shoulder. "Ah'm sure you're sister's the expert on survivin' the Games. Yeah, don't listen to the guy who can actually help you in the Games, listen to Miss Nutso."

"She's not a nutso." Sean grits his teeth.

"That's not what Ah hear. You know Sean, loads a' stories are doing the rounds down in District Four. Ah hear Miss Armani's crazy as old Fidget. A regular murderer who doesn't know when to keep her damn mouth shut."

"She's not an idiot or crazy," Sean says through grinding teeth.

"Sure she ain't. Don't worry, Ah believe you. So, Sean, mate, how's the old girl doing? How's her love life? Is she really still dating that Boston asshole's grave?" I snort as Sean shoves me off his shoulder and storms out the door. His face is firm and determined, but his eyes betray his true emotions.

Are all District Ten kids crazy or is it just the ones who get Reaped?

"Ah who needs you!" I shout as the boy retreats down the corridor and up the stairs, "Last thing Ah want is some brother of a crazy running around upstaging me all the time!"

"Nice job," Lucian says, only slightly sarcastically. "You really do know how to recruit people."

"Ah suppose you could've done better." I ask, and Lucian chuckles and shakes his head.

"You must be kidding." I chuckle and take a step closer to him. "Yes?"

"Well how about you?" I inquire, standing on my tiptoes so I can look him in the eye. "Are you in?"

"In for what?"

"The Careers alliance," I drawl. "We could really use a guy like you!"

"For what?" the boy smirks, cocking an eyebrow. I stop, my face creasing as I try to think of a response for the scrawny, rather unimpressive looking teen. I really hadn't thought he'd ask me why he was needed. I thought he'd just take the compliment. He's too smart by half.

"...Moral support," I finally croak. Yeah, smooth. I can really see why the Doc kept you around Con.

"You don't really want me in the Career alliance, do you?" Lucian tells me, quite coolly.

"What are you talking about?" I smile, a cold sweat trickling down my neck. "'Course Ah want you...Ah, Ah mean the alliance wants you!" I cover.

"No," Lucian says with a knowing nod. "You're just fishing for allies. It's stupid to go for the small fries like me and Sean, you know."

"So you're out?" I ask, despondent.

"Well yes, I don't think we'd make good allies. You're too scheming and I'm too clever," Lucian replies. "But sure, if you want a friend, I have nothing against that."

The boy gives a quick step forwards and, instinctively, I back away. Before I can move further, however, he grips my hand firmly. I look down, mouth agape.

It takes me a few seconds to work out what has happened but, when I do, I return his shake. It feels like someone has pulled a weight off my chest and I no longer have to be worried by this whole Canicus problem. Well, not as much at least.

"Ah lahke you, Lucian," I tell him. "You know what, if Ah meet you in the Arena, Ah'll make sure someone else kills you." Lucian smiles, if a little menacingly, letting go of my hand and stepping out in to the hall.

"And if I meet you," he mutters. "I'll kill you. That way I know you won't suffer, friend. I hope you'll do the same."

The door slips shut behind Lucian as he hurries away to his own floor, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts. I wait a few seconds, before shaking my head and letting out a breath. Tearing my eyes from the place where Lucian had been standing, I turn instead to the mirror over the sink and double check my appearance.

Well, I guess that's one way to play these Games, I think, splashing a little water on my face to fix my hair and clean away the sweat that's built up there over training.

I guess my plans of some sort of splinter alliance sort of screwed themselves up then. Ah well, I'm not really all that bothered.

Why? Well I may not have found any allies from this little foray in to the less successful Districts, but I did find something much more interesting. Something I had given up searching for in the Games since Roulla turned away my advances on the first day.

I've found a friend.

And Lord is he nuts!

It doesn't take me long to find an elevator and reach my floor after talking to Lucian. I know the way by now, better than I did yesterday at least. It takes me a little longer to find my room, since some idiot, probably Eli, decided it would be a good idea for the lights to be off, I guess so we could get a better feel of what it's going to be like in the Games. Slipping inside the room, I take another moment to bask in its glory. Lush carpets, a huge four poster bed, gold detail on everything and about a million books, games and magazines stacked everywhere. The room, with its slight nautical theme, feels kind of like how staying in a hotel must feel, right down to the complimentary mint and towel, which I have kept for sentimentalities sake. Looking at where I am now, it's hard to imagine I ever used to sleep in a simple sleeping bag under a beam in the Doc's basement. Not that I didn't appreciate staying with the Doc but, really, it would have been way, way better if his cellar looked like this place. Marching over to one of the huge oak bookcases, I select a magazine that looks good and pluck it from its place. Launching myself on to the bed, I leaf through the magazine until I find an article I like. I sigh contentedly as I caress the crisp papers in between my fingers and am just starting to relax when I hear a tap at my door.

Slightly frustrated at being interrupted, I drag myself to my feet and march to the door, throwing it open and revealing a diminutive, pale skinned man. Dark red sunglasses cover his eyes completely and a small tooth pick rests in his jaws. His puce hair is almost entirely covered by what looks like a huge red fish head covered in little tassles and he wears what I can only describe as baggy jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, complete with rose motif.

"Well howdy, Eli!" I chirp, forcing my voice in to the most painful impersonation of a Capitol accent I can manage. "How you doing?"

Eli visibly winces, rubbing his fluffy stubble and hopping slightly on the spot, his pointed purple shoes clicking together as he does so. "Yeah...real cute." Eli snarls, pushing me backwards slightly as he sweeps in to the room. "Listen, yeah, I'm not here on some sort of jolly, you got that? I'm your Escort, I guess, and it's my job to make sure you're doing your job right because that damn Fidget isn't doing jack."

"Oh come on Eli," I mock sorrow. "Ah thought we were buds."

"Yeah, no." Eli pulls a face, "Listen Rosse... Ro... Con. I don't like you. At all. If it came to a choice between looking after you for my whole life and throwing myself to my death...umm...I'd be on the edge of a cliff right now."

"Can Ah keep your hat?" I mock him with a wink.

"Shut up," Eli snaps. "Look Con. I'm not here to banter with you or play your little Games or whatever the hell you think I'm doing. I'm here to talk tactics. Get comfortable, or something, 'cos you're not going to enjoy this conversation any more than I will." Nodding, I fall backwards, sprawling on my bed.

"Ok," I begin. "So, what sort of tactics do you want to talk about, Eli old mate?"

Eli groans. "Yeah...first off, never call me that again. Second off...umm...what the hell have you been doing in your training!?"

"Training," I reply. "Ain't that what Ah'm supposed to be doing?"

"Yeah...don't give me that crap," Eli spits. "You ain't been training properly, at least not the way I see it. If you'd been training properly you'd have worn yourself out by now!"

"Well," I chuckle. "Ah will admit Ah'm finding hard to stay awake right now." Eli snarls, leaning over the bed and gripping me by the chest, pulling me forwards and trying to drag me to my feet. It doesn't work. Eli's not really the strongest guy I've met.

"Listen fish for brains," Eli continues, "I don't want to hear your goddamn whining. I want to know what you've got planned for your Private Sessions and how the hell you plan to win this?"

"Ah go in and hit stuff with axes," I reply. "Pretty simple huh?"

"Yeah..." Eli muses. "Too simple. What else have you planned?"

"Jack all." I grin, leaning back in to my mattress and turning to the next page in my magazine, "Do Ah really need to? Ah'm a Career, Ah'm bound to get at least a Seven."

"Yeah right. Tell that to Skye Azurite." Eli smirks, peering over his shades at me. His eyes are yellow today. I guess he must have got bored with their old colour.

"Who?" Eli buries his head in his hands.

"Okay, okay," Eli shivers, "Let's just move on. How about the alliance?"

"Bunch of annoying psychos," I sneer. "Ah've been trying to fahnd some interesting people from the other Districts, you know, but so far Ah've had no luck. Think Ah might just drop out on the first night if things don't go well."

"Don't. You. Dare." Eli replies, jabbing me in the chest with each word. "You stick with the Career alliance like you're supposed to and don't even think about leaving until you absolutely have to."

"Oh yeah?" I ask. "And why exactly should Ah stick around with a bunch of brainless idiots?"

"Because of last year," Eli explains, "and that idiot Moss. What the hell was he even thinking? A Career should stick with the pack, not attempt to fight it with some sort of unworkable Anti Career alliance."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." I shake my head, bored. "What's this got to do with me?"

"You really have no idea, do you?" Eli says with a flicker of a grin, "I guess it makes sense, you're a District boy after all, as hard as you try to pretend to fit in here. You...you don't understand. The Gamemakers are going to be watching you like a hawk, and if they catch even the slightest hint that you might just decide do ditch the alliance and find some new allies, then you are as good as dead. So, how do you plan to stop that from happening?"

"Dunno," I respond.

"You don't know," Eli repeats, unimpressed.

"Yeah. Ah was guessing Ah'd just hang around with the alliance. Smash a few skulls together, try not to work mahself too hard, you know? Ah figure Ah'll just go along with Can watching mah back, then make mah own way once he goes to that great training center in the sky."

"Do you mind telling me," Eli growls, "how the hell you expect to win these damn Games if you can't even be bothered to work out how you're going to beat everyone else in the Private Sessions or in the Games?"

"Ah don't!" I cheer. Eli stops, his face frozen in horror.

"What?" Eli gulps.

"Ah said Ah don't," I repeat and Eli shakes his head. "Ah mean come one Eli! There's twenty four kids in these Games, one of them is bound to do better than me in Private Sessions and to have planned everything down to the letter! But that's just the thing, the Private Sessions just ain't worth the hassle and, really, plans have a nasty habit of going horribly wrong in the Hunger Games. Ah've got what takes to beat the lot of them, sure, but really Ah didn't come to these Games to waste all my time planning strategy or to kill children."

Eli grinds his teeth together and snorts through his nose. "Then why the hell did you come?"

"To have fun! Ah mean seriously, Eli, look at this place!" I laugh, motioning to the room around me. "This place is paradise. Ah wasn't going to miss out on this! Even a day here is well worth dying for." Eli stares at me silently, his face grim, his lips quivering slightly for a long time. I watch him curiously as he gulps a few times and then, ever so slowly, his face turns completely red.

"Idiot!" He roars. "Don't you know how important it is to me, to District Four, that you go in there prepared? Moss seriously hurt our reputation as a Career District last year and I am damned, damned, if I'm going to let you go in there without so much as a plan!"

"Oh Ah never said Ah didn't have a plan." I chuckle and Eli's eyes light up with a malevolent smirk. "Mah dear sir, Ah've got a plan alright. A foolproof, unstoppable, one of a kind plan of such genius it'd make your head spin just hearing it. And when everything gets into motion it'll destroy the lot of them, regardless of how many tricks or traps they have up their sleeve."

"Uh huh," Eli nods, "and just how is this plan going to work?"

"It's going to work, Eli, because Ah have one thing that none of the rest of these dingbats, not even you, have," I say, rolling off of my bed and heading for the door.

"And what's that then, Mr. Idiot?"

"Good looks and a salesman brain." I chuckle, practically skipping out of the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, Ah'm getting kinda bored. Think Ah'll take a walk."

Eli's face turns an even deeper shade of beetroot as I hurry down the corridor and in to the lift, before he can follow me. With a flourish I press the button for the roof and watch the doors slam shut in his face. Piped music soothes my ears and I smile slightly, instantly forgetting my jackass mentor as I ascend.

It's been a long day of nearly bothering to apply myself and I could do with the fresh air.

A cool breeze hits me as soon as the lift doors open and I close my eyes for a second, taking in the refreshing current and the sounds of the city. The buzz of neon lights and the soothing symphony of big business drift up to my ears and I grin from ear to ear. Why couldn't I have been born, or at least abandoned, here? This is the sort of place I could have actually made an honest living, if an honest living is actually possible in Panem.

I take a sniff of the surroundings and the smell of strawberries drift into my nose. I've smelt it before, and it calms my soul. Exhaling, I shake my head and let my hair drift slightly in the breeze. A hovercraft passes by and a few cameras in the corners sweep towards me, fascinated by my every move.

Ahh, how wonderful it is being a celebrity.

It's at this point that the sound of a lilting, but slightly rough, voice reaches my ears. My eyes lazily open as I realise I'm not alone, and fix on the two, clearly female, figures standing on the roof, looking out over the city. One of them laughs, clutching a half empty bottle of...something potent, in her hand while the other girl just stands there holding a single drinking glass. Squinting slightly, I admire the view from behind as I approach them, recognising the second girl instantly from her stiff, somewhat awkward stance and her hesitant stare and the tall blonde the moment I catch the intoxicating scent of perfume that hangs around her.

Admire Blanchard and Roulla Saney.

"Howdy ladies!" I boom, wrapping an arm around each girl's shoulder. "Did you miss me?"

Admire smirks, turning her head towards me and observing me with curious eyes that seem surprisingly sharp considering how much it seems like she's been drinking. Roulla, on the other hand, jumps at my touch, spilling her glass of water as soon as my arm brushes against her and stepping away, her face the picture of embarrassed surprise.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, indignant, and I give her a casual grin, clicking my tongue and winking at her.

"Well hello to you, too, Roulla. Jesus. Ain't a guy allowed to take a casual stroll once in a while to clear his head?"

"You are perfectly entitled to," Roulla states, "but I would prefer it if you did not sneak up behind me while I am in the middle of a conversation with Miss Blanchard."

"Ooh," I tease. "A conversation, huh? Classy. Too complicated for a 'despicable' fella lahke me, huh? Since Ah'm totally not your type."

"Is this still about our conversation on Reaping day?" Roulla sighs. "Because I thought we were passed this after you apologised."

"Ah'm passed it," I reply coolly. "You're the dame who bought it up." Roulla rolls her eyes.

"Stop calling me that," she says, as Admire gives a snort of laughter beside me.

"Ah thought you didn't wanna be called doll, dame." I chuckle and, for the first time, Admire pipes up.

"Roulla ain't a dame, baby. She's a lady." She pauses, suppressing a hiccough. "Now me on the other hand..."

Is she coming onto me? Wow, I thought I was the only one up for it in these Games.

"Baby," I mimic. "Y'know Ah kinda like that, doll. Name's Con Rossencourte, how about you?"

"Admire," the girl says, raising her chin proudly. Yeah I know who she is already but it's always good to introduce yourself to a chick who's flirting with you. "I'm Admire. Not Ah'm, by the way."

I cast Admire a curious expression. "Ah'm?"

"No, 'I'm'," Admire says with a grating snicker, reminding me sickeningly of Eli. "It's how you say it."

"I am afraid Admire has had a bit too much to drink," Roulla whispers to me, as if it weren't obvious. So that's how it is, huh? Little old me standing here, stuck between a prude and a barfly. Guess it could be worse. I could be stuck between District Three.

"I haven't had that much!" Admire retorts, stumbling towards Roulla and nearly flopping to the ground as she does so. She recovers, smoothing her hair with her free hand.

"Stop before you make an idiot of yourself," Roulla snaps and Admire hiccoughs again and brandishes her bottle, tipping copious amounts of whatever the hell she's been drinking (bleach I think) all over my shoes. She takes a step towards Roulla, snarling with rage as she wields the bottle like a baseball bat.

"I'm not an idiot nor would I ever try to look like one." Yes, you are Admire. You've got legs and that figure is just...wow, but you're an idiot.

And that's exactly what I need you to be.

"Ladies, ladies," I chuckle, marching up to Admire and holding her back. "No need to fight over little old me!"

"Funny," Roulla grimaces and I snicker. Admire scowls at Roulla, fighting under my grip, but eventually tires and comes to rest back on the wall, looking out at the city as if nothing had happened.

"This sucks," Admire mutters to herself, before lurching forwards so that she is perched rather precariously and in danger of possibly falling off the side. Roulla raises an eyebrow at her proximity to a long, painful drop; Admire seems to notice and just smirks, making a show of leaning against the thin railing separating her from the open air and taking a deep drink from the bottle. But she quickly withdraws it, paling slightly and turning away from us, a retching sound emerging from her throat.

"Charming," Roulla mutters, and I smile at her.

"Ah see we're finally starting to agree with each other," I reply taking a step closer to her and Roulla looks at me with hard eyes.

"I thought I made it clear on the train that we were just going to be allies." She sighs and I grin.

"Yeah Ah know, Ah know, Ah'm not your type," I chuckle. "Doesn't mean we have to keep being so distant, you know? Just 'cos we totally aren't in a relationship doesn't mean we can't be friends."

"It is not worth your while trying to befriend me," Roulla replies. "In a few days one of us will be dead."

"Yeah well, maybe Ah think you're worth befriending, d- Ah mean Roulla." I smile, "If only for a few days." Roulla gives a sad chuckle.

"Not interested," Roulla repeats, although in a slightly more cheery tone than last time. Okay, well, this is Roulla I'm taking about; maybe "cheery" isn't the word. It was more in a less frigid tone than last time. But however you describe it, it's good. It would not do me any favours to start my plan with an enemy. I need everyone who knows me to like me for this to work.

"Come on, Roulla," I plead. "Being just allies is real boring."

"Then you'll just have to be bored then won't you?" she says.

"You know, not everything Ah say is to get me laid," I tell her and she gives a dry cough, looking away in embarrassment. "Seriously, Roulla, you brainy girls just aren't mah type neither, but that doesn't mean Ah hate you."

"But, we are Careers," Roulla whispers.

"Yeah, and we're District partners," I smile, reaching out and touching her shoulder. This time she doesn't jump, but she does brush me off. "Look, Ah know Ah'm a dolt and Ah know you ain't interested but Ah thought Ah told you already that Ah'd love to be your friend. After all, it'd be a shame if we hated each other's guts like Admire and Can. So, whaddya say, Miss Saney? Friends?"

"Thank you for the offer," Roulla says, "but I am afraid, I have to decline. I do not exactly have a good track record with my friends and I don't want to be too hasty. Shall we say...acquaintances for now and then we will see where we go from there."

"Ah have no ahdea what one of those is but, sure, it's better than us never talking at all, you know?" I reply.

"Besides," Roulla continues, "I do not want to spend all my time correcting you. You have no idea how many mistakes you made in that last sentence."

I chuckle, before quickly moving on. "So, what's a girl lahke you doing with a lush like this?" I say, motioning to Admire, who is still leaning over the balcony, looking rather white, "Ah would've thought you'd hate hanging out with a girl lahke Admire."

"Yes well," Roulla murmurs rubbing her arm and looking at the tribute in question. "She started talking to me after training for some reason and I am afraid I ended up getting her drinks. She had a bit too much and, before I know it, I'm up here listening to Miss Blanchard complaining about everything from boys to training to her mother."

"Sounds dull," I commiserate and Roulla nods.

"Extremely. The only reason I stayed up here listening to her whining is because she almost plummeted off the side twice and I'm worried she might do it again if I take my eyes off of her." I grin at the girl, who is now starting to look quite frantic, and brush my hair to one side, revealing both my gray and blue eyes so that I can make full eye contact with her.

"An' here Ah was thinking you were just here to look at her legs," I quip and, for some reason, Roulla blushes. "You know if it's that much trouble to you, Ah could keep watch of her and you could go get some sleep. Looks to me lahke you could use it."

"Are you sure you will be okay looking after her, at least until she sobers up?" Roulla asks, glancing at the girl.

"Ah'll be fahne," I assure her, looking back at the teen, who has just finished vomiting over the side. She grips at her side painfully. "Ah mean, look at her, she's kinda cute don't you think?" Roulla shivers and casts her eyes on Admire, who has just tipped back over the side and is wiping her mouth.

"Hardly," Roulla shrugs. "But I suppose if you really think you'll be okay." She turns and walks away, heading for lift.

"Hey Roulla!" I shout and she stops, expectantly.

"Yes?"

"Since we're acquantisomethings now, can Ah call you Rouls?"

"Not if you want to live," Roulla says without hesitation, before slipping in to the lift.

My smile grows.

Stage one of my master plan complete. Now begins stage two.

I take a look at Admire, who stands a couple of inches taller than me, and she throws me an airy grin. This is going to be much easier than I thought it would be.

"Looks lahke it's just me an' you left then, doll," I chirp, stepping up to her and wrapping an arm around her and fixing her with a huge grin.

Despite her rather sozzled state, Admire is at least courteous enough to play along.

"How wonderful," she says with a giddy giggle and her voice somehow sounds clearer, less muddled, "It's so...refreshing to get away from that boring Rouls."

"Yeah." I smile, sniffing at her strawberry perfume, which is really the only appetising thing about her other than her looks. "Rouls and her rules huh? We don't need any of that." She snorts and gazes at me.

"Your eyes look stupid," she observes and I wince at the insult, but quickly recover.

"And your eyes are beautiful," I respond. She nods like what I've just said is a simple fact in the world and looks away.

"Con?" I turn my attention to Admire, swaggering over to her and fixing my eyes upon her.

"Yeah?"

"You think I'm beautiful, right?"

"Sure," I reply. "Anyone with eyes can see that."

"Of course," she says with an arrogant smile. "Even eyes as screwy as yours. It would be such a shame for such a beautiful body to be ruined at such an early age. But alas, that's the way things must be." She waves her arms theatrically and I cock my head, unsure what she's trying to say.

"There a problem?" I ask and Admire raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly as though she can't believe I didn't guess the answer.

"The vomiting didn't give it away?"

I chuckle, the meaning of her words becoming clear to me. "Ah think the solution to that might be to take it easy on the drinks."

She frowns for a second, then laughs. "Oh, please, I can hold my liquor better than most of the people here in the Capitol. And I'm probably more fun to drink with too," she adds with a wink.

I grin at that; this girl seems to be more interesting than I thought. Roulla just failed to see the fun in her. "So what's your problem then?" I search around for a possible answer and land on one issue that I've noticed most tributes seem to have back home. "Family troubles?"

Admire smiles slyly. "You tell me yours and maybe I'll share mine."

"Not much to tell," I say with a sheepish grin, "Never had the pleasure of meeting mah folks. Figure Ah'm lucky. Any scumbags willing to leave me when Ah'm young lahke that don't deserve a handsome son lahke me, you know?" Admire nods and pulls herself closer to me, batting her eyelashes at me and giving me the general impression that she really isn't listening.

"My goodness," she simpers, her voice so melodramatic that I can't help but think she's mocking me. "However did you survive?"

"Man called Doc Snails took me in," I reply, not really sure why I'm telling the girl this. I guess it doesn't matter, I need to get this stuff off my chest and she's way too drunk to remember any of this in the morning. Hopefully. "Found me on the street when Ah was little and told me Ah was just the kid he was looking for. Ah helped him sell stuff to people round the District, since folks find a kid with mismatched eyes cute, and he gave me food and a room in his basement. Great guy. Clever, talented, kind. You know, real people person."

"You slept in a basement?" Admire asks, curious. "Hm, you must love the rooms we get here, they're so much...more." I raise my eyebrows and then chuckle.

"Yeah," I reply, a hint of sadness in my voice. "All Ah need is the Doc here to make these Games complete." Admire ignores that comment and continues on her unabashed attempt to romance me.

"Did anyone ever tell you your hair is great?" she asks and I grin.

"Hear it every day, doll," I tell her and she smiles.

"Same here," she sighs. "You know, this isn't so easy when both of us are as gorgeous as we are."

"The words don't matter you know?" I tell her, "Ah'm just happy that Ah'm standing here, looking at you, baby."

"I'm sure you are," Admire says with a laugh. "But it's only fair to warn you that you're going to be making a lot of boys back home angry with that comment."

"Got yourself some admirers, huh?" She just smiles, batting her eyes and very effectively answering my question. "Well, Ah don't see them here." I grin, making an exaggerated gesture as I scan the area.

"Well duh!" Admire hiccoughs. "That's because they haven't done anything to get Reaped."

"Sounds like they're lazy," I drawl. "Why're you worrying about some random boys anyway? You're going to be rich in a few days and they'll just be a nothing." Actually she's going to be dead in a few days if I get my way, which is a real shame since she's quite a looker, even if she's a little lax in the brain department.

Admire thinks for a little, tapping her chin sarcastically, before nodding in agreement and turning to me. "Point taken," she says, grinning mischievously. "Any plans for this evening?" I chuckle. That supposed to be my line.

"Ah dunno," I drawl. "Ah was planning to spend some time talking tactics with Roulla." Admire pouts and I smile. "But what did you have in mind?"

"You ever played poker?" I honestly never have.

"Ah've played blackjack," I reply, and Admire scoffs, "Is it lahke that?"

"It's a little more... active." She raises her eyebrows suggestively, which helps me catch her drift.

"My dear Miss Blanchard," I say with a raise of my own eyebrows. "Ah do believe you're trying to seduce me."

"And what was your first clue?" she asks, batting her eyes.

"Doll, Ah don't need clues; Ah know as soon Ah walk into a room that the girls are gonna try and get some of this." I gesture to myself and she laughs, rolling her eyes. "So, how drunk are you feeling?"

"Probably not drunk enough for whatever you're planning," she retorts with a smirk, but I can see the amused light in her eyes.

"You sure? 'Cause you're missing one heck of an opportunity."

She laughs. "What are you, a businessman?"

I grin. "Of sorts."

She laughs, eyeing me with those stormy grey eyes, and before I can react, she grips me by the shoulders and pulls me forwards, locking my lips in a passionate kiss. Her eyes close and mine soon follow as my nose gulps down the intoxicating smell of strawberries and...alcoholic petrol or something.

I don't know quite how long we spend just standing there, locked in one another's embrace, but it feels like forever before she pulls away from me, out of breath.

She's a good kisser. Not the best I've known, but certainly the prettiest, despite her personality flaws.

"Wow." I gasp as she brushes my hair out the way of my face and inspects me, running her eyes over my soft lips, small nose, sparkling blue eye, cold gray eye and all the rest of my handsome gloriousness.

She lets out a breathy laugh, still trying to get the air back into her lungs herself. "Well, you sell quality products Mr Rossencourte, I'll give you that."

I chuckle softly. "Were you expecting to be disappointed?"

She stares back at me, the usual smirk creeping back onto her face. "Maybe."

I smile, pushing her backwards against the banister and returning her kiss whole heartedly. Roulla would roll her eyes if she caught me doing this. Canicus would blow a fuse. Jet? Well I don't know what he'd do. Probably knife me while I'm distracted.

But I'd like to see any one of them take me on now. Now that I'm this powerful. Now that I have this many friends on my side.

Because I've finally found my niche. I'm the conversationalist. The guy everyone wants to talk to. The guy everyone loves to be around.

The guy no one will be happy to kill.

I will win these Games, and Admire will be the weapon to deliver me victory, despite everyone else's plans.

I smile as my pretty little weapon presses into me and whispers some beautiful nothing in my ear.

I know I have won.

Stage two complete


	24. Pretty Little Liar

__Sorry that this hasn't been put up before now. I've been going through some IRL issues, and right now it's down to just me. I had to go for allergy testing for some severe allergic reactions. They're bad enough I'll be starting allergy shots this Friday. My computer is in the shop, so I'm using a different one. Things will be a little slow for possibly the next week or so and then hopefully we can be back on pace-barring any severe reactions to the shot on Friday or more computer crashes.

The next update will be Saturday-a nice lengthy one XD.

Thank you for sticking with us and being patient. Our goal is to be back to our normal schedule either next week or the next. Until then, we'll be having two updates a week.

* * *

**__Admire Blanchard of District One**

**Evening Two, an Interlude**

**by ****_Crazy-ForeverxXx_**

* * *

**_"To achieve, you need thought. You have to know what you are doing and that's real power."_**

**_ Ayn Rand_**

* * *

The bed covers are flung haphazardly over my skin and I can feel my eye makeup ringing my bleary eyes thickly, grubbily. A hand grips my ankle, clinging to my body like an unpleasant extra limb as I try to get out of the bed I'm sprawled on. The District 4 rooms, I'm relieved to see are equal to mine, no extra luxuries I've missed out on in my time at this glorious City. The large windows show a weak sun struggling to shine through thick clouds, but when it achieves its aim and its rays shower down on the streets below they dazzle with life. Like the Capitol is the heart of Panem, and its people travel up and down the streets of arteries to ensure it still provides life for everyone else in the country.

The boy beside me mumbles in his sleep, and the annoying accent cuts through my sleepy mood like a knife, severing any relaxing feeling in me. It reminds me abruptly of my plan that I spent merely minutes thinking about after I arrived here days ago, and I know a smug smile is curled on my lips even as I lean over and nudge the irritation beside me who is now snoring loudly and disgustingly. Has he no manners whatsoever? He stinks of body odour, drool dripping from his mouth onto the silk pillows where it smears and I pull a face of disgust, smile disappearing faster than it came as I try again to break free from this disgusting specimen of a 'gentleman.'

"Get your hands off me!" I hiss sharply through gritted teeth, shoving him backwards and kicking my long legs free from the tangle of sheets as I fight the iron grip on my lower leg. My kick connects with his stomach and he lets out a low groan as he rubs at his eyes, confused.

"Ah was just-"

"It's not 'ah'," I correct eloquently with a disdainful glower and an unpleasant feeling that the remark is reminiscent of his district partner Roulla. "And I don't care; go back to sleep."

He rolls over and mumbles into the mound of pillows and I shake my head in disgust as I pull my dress on. He had nothing on Trojan or the boys in District 1; clearly, we are renowned for luxury in every department.

His mumbles pewter into light snores and I cover my mouth as I yawn, trying to muffle the sound. As entertaining as it would be to watch him wake up and beg me to stay I have plenty of other things to be doing. Worthwhile things.

The boy from District 4 is not worth my while.

Con Rossencourte, with his grating accent, mismatched eyes and appalling pronunciation of even simple words, makes me wonder how much drink I consumed last night, although I have to give him points for at least trying to out-flirt me. Maybe that was why I let him have me; certainly I can use his infatuation with me for my own advantages.

I grab my shoes and shut the door softly behind me, Con not even stirring from his deep sleep as I walk away with a slight swagger in my hips, feline smile on my lips. There's nothing as satisfying as knowing another boy loves you. It's not particularly surprising; every member of the opposite sex can't resist me however much they try. Canicus thinks he's hiding it well with his arrogant and cocky attitude but his affection is clear to see, however much he tries to shield it with scorn, and of course all the other tributes are so mad in the head they're still trying to convince themselves that what they feel for me is real.

The wooden floor is cool beneath my bare feet and I find myself examining my toenails critically as I walk, for my annoying prep team is _not_so good at their job. In fact, I told them I could do better and they merely laughed.

Idiots.

I preen my hair with one hand while pressing the elevator button with the other, wriggling my feet into my heels and trying to ignore the slight hangover that makes my head pound in rhythm with my walking. My dress is crumpled and I look at it, annoyed, my hands smoothing out the creases carefully as the doors open and I step into the elevator. It shoots me down from the fourth floor to the first in a few seconds, earning a nauseating twist in my stomach. I hum under my breath, satisfied as I walk to my room with silence being my only companion.

Last night was certainly a mistake I'll never make again. I have to pin my sights on someone better, although I can definitely use his obsession with me in my favour during the Games.

I stride across my room immediately to the most precious item in there, ignoring the huge wardrobe and dresser for something more important. Even ignoring the bed, which practically begs me to sleep. No, there's something much more deserving of my attention.

Me, obviously.

I stare at the reflected surface of the mirror, scrutinizing my every pore. Did I look too sickly? I don't want to look ill. I can't look ill. Do the other tributes see my paleness as normal? Or too pale?

They can't know. Any weakness needs to be hidden, especially one as dangerous as this. My face is a strange mismatch of worry and annoyance, forehead creased with concern and lips pursed. Eyes flashing brightly with hybrid feelings. Annoyance thankfully wins out and I remedy the serious problem by spending a while applying makeup, finishing with bright scarlet lipstick and putting any bad thoughts to the back of my mind to deal with later.

Out of sight, out of mind is the phrase, I believe.

I pucker my glossy lips, reflection like a porcelain doll as I start on my hair, which is even silkier than usual due to the fabulous Capitol showers. When I win the Games, I'm going to install one of those in my own bathroom, and I may even steal an Avox to be a servant…

I lose myself in daydreams as I sit down to fiddle with two portions of my hair, plaiting a section and pinning it back before twisting my head to examine the angle. I nod to myself and start the opposite side.

It has come to my attention in the Capitol that many of these men are rich and looking to have fun with a young girl. I can still remember the lust filled gazes when I was on my chariot ride, when Canicus scratched me. I huff at the memory, getting up from the white glazed dresser I was seated at where the makeup lies cluttered and the shiny surface is marred by brushes, sprinkling powder and eye shadow that rest on the once pristine marble top.

I walk over to my wardrobe and flick through the clothes, a rainbow of colours assaulting my eyes. Fluorescent pinks and gaudy yellows, to name a few of the more outrageous outfits. I eventually choose one dress and hook it to the top of the wardrobe so it doesn't get creased.

Yes, I have deduced that the men here in the Capitol are just like the boys back home, except better. Whereas back home the boys knew what I was like, these guys don't know anything about me or my ways. I mean, I don't have enough fingers to count the people in One I've seduced who know what I'm like, surely here in the Capitol they must have more sophistication than others, and the advantage of not knowing the real me. I don't know what they teach in District 4...

I grin to myself as I examine the lacy lingerie lining the Capitol drawers. I wonder if they have them in all the tribute girls' rooms. Or maybe they just know me so well.

Yes, these Capitol boys will be oblivious to my ways and will soon get tangled in my web. So naïve they are.

I smirk as I zip the dress on. It's neon orange and sticks out at odd angles but it's Capitol fashion and it has a certain appeal. Quite chic really. I attach a feather in my hair and it bounces jauntily as I pop in silver earrings. And for a finishing touch, I squirt perfume on the insides of my wrist and neck before leaving as silently as I arrived.

There is no hide or hair of anyone in my suite, for which I am eternally grateful. If my inane escort Creon were to discover me now he would ruin everything.

I make my way down to the ground floor, striding confidently out of the front door with a look down my nose at the Avox guards. If you look like you own the place, people don't even question where you're going and it's not like the Avox fools can even talk to tell anyone.

I am greeted by a mirage of sights, buildings so tall my neck cricks straining to see the top floor, huge cars with engines roaring as they zoom past merely a blur, people tottering around with bizarre fashions- purses made from pink scales and hats that are adorned with glossy fruits, flowers, even animals. One woman has a bird clinging to her scalp.

I descend the marble steps slowly. The sky above me may be a cloudy grey as daylight chases night away but the Capitol citizens are still partying, streamers hanging from windows and cheers erupting from classy wine bars.

The pavement is a smooth white limestone, no dirt or grass to be seen for miles in each and every direction, practically glowing with perfection. I can smell food I have never heard of before, with signs above shops encouraging people to come in and eat an assortment of delicacies. If only I had the time, but if I need to be back in my room for nine-thirty, at the latest; I cannot be distracted. My stomach rumbles despite this, and I look longingly at the windows displaying food I've rarely seen in District 1. Huge, crumbling twists of bread rolls with chocolate pieces, cake with a number of glazed fruits on top, sugar icing and jellies and tarts and-

My mouth waters as I shake my head to dispel my hunger and walk along the side-streets filled with candy coloured houses and shops advertising tattoos and body modifications. I pause outside one of those shops and look at the designs as my stomach grumbles loudly in protest of no food. It tugs at my insides, urging me to go back and eat. I resist stoutly, knowing if I eat I'll just get stomach-churning nausea or that disgusting vomit that burns my teeth as I retch.

An old voice croaks from the shop's shadows. "No looking unless you're buying."

I look up to see a woman wearing some metal contraption on her back that gives her the appearance of a hermit crab. We learnt about those in school, they're very common in District 4. There must be a problem with her spine if she's wearing that, but her looks don't improve with the ghoulish pig features. Her nose is flattened to a snout, nostrils pushed out. I don't know if that was the look she was aiming for, some crab-pig hybrid mess, but she achieves it perfectly. She leans heavily on a diamanté cane.

"Oh, I want something though." I smile pleasantly, sarcastically, and tap the window with my nails. "How much for a… what is this supposed to be? Oh, it's a depiction of a tribute slaying another. How lovely. You can modify it to be me after I win."

She scowls, marring her ridiculous features even further as she taps her cane at the window. "It's our beloved President Finn during a speech." Clearly she has the eyesight of a pig as well. "It's not just about you tributes you know."

I blink, startled, before bursting into loud laughter that makes my stomach ache. How on earth could they have a Hunger Games if it wasn't for us tributes? Tributes like me make the show, not the Gamemakers. They just spice up the action; it's the tributes job to be fun and entertaining. I mean imagine what would happen if there were no tributes. No Hunger Games. And what would happen then? Nothing. Complete and utter boredom. Why, if there were no Hunger Games, I'd have to work instead of living in the Victor's Village!

"You are very disrespectful," The old woman hisses as I continue to splutter at the absurdness. I narrow my eyes. I'm disrespectful? She should _not_be talking to me like that. I am, after all, a tribute. One of the best tributes in these Games and any Games before. Certainly the most beautiful.

The old woman is still eyeing me so I smile sweetly and knock her over as I walk past. Her cane goes spinning to the ground and she lets out a choke, clutching onto the doorframe with trembling fingers. I have an urge to push her to the ground but instead smile broadly at her wide eyes before waggling my fingers goodbye.

"At least I don't look like a mortally wounded pig," I mutter scathingly under my breath as I walk past. She'll see when I'm Victor. Nobody will be going to her pathetic little shop any longer; what's one moody old woman against a huge adoring crowd? Nothing more than a nuisance.

I carry on down more side streets until gradually the roads turn slightly less prim and more silent. Less shops spring up and I gather this must be the 'poor' section of the Capitol.

Not what I was looking for at all.

I scowl, heels getting stuck in the cracks between slabs. I yank my shoe out; I'd walked all this way for nothing. I'll just have to turn back and search the opposite side of the Capitol, which will take hours I'm sure.

I grumble under my breath until I hear voices, loud voices proclaiming about things only rich people would understand like the quality of silk these days and the colour to paint their lounge and what music to have playing at their ball. Their steps echo down the street and I turn to the left as I hear them approach.

"Excuse me," I simper when they come into view. I step backward and hear the crunch of the heel as it gets jammed in between two cracked limestone pieces again. It's a nice effect to have a sun ray beaming down on me. Rather like an Angel shining alluringly. A siren dragging people in.

The two men look at me. Both portly and both dressed in tailor made suits, I can tell from one look that they cost an exuberant amount of money. The smaller of the two has a pointed beard and eyes that glow so fiercely it is hard to look him in the eye. His skin is dyed a dark blue and he stops when the other nudges him.

"What's wrong?" the older one squeaks, his Capitol voice nothing like the dulcet tones from men at home. He has a tangle of black curled tattoos on his forehead and purple eyebrows. He approaches me and I catch a whiff of expensive and stale tobacco. His muscles are sagging and he carries an air of subtle 'wrongness' about him, along with the almost blinding smile.

He'll do perfectly.

"I'm stuck." I huff, crossing my arms indignantly like a petulant child as I pout. "I only meant to have a look around and now I'm lost."

"You're that tribute girl! From District One." The squat one chortles. "I've bet on you."

"To win?" I beam and motion to my broken shoe. "Can you help me?" I glance at them pleadingly, holding up my arms. The older man immediately lifts me up and I cling to him for a few extra seconds, a beat too long.

"Thank you."

"No problem." He flashes a too wide smile that I eagerly return as he sets me gently down. His hands waver for too long on my slim hips and I giggle foolishly.

"I'm so silly."

"No you're not. It was just an accident, it happens to us all." He holds out a hand. "I'm Jovilios by the way. Jovilios Efrem."

"Well you know my name, don't you?" I tease, feeling the dimple rising in my cheek as I flash a winning smile and return his clammy handshake daintily. I swing the skirts of my dress back and forth, flashing a bit more skin then necessarily.

"Listen Jo, I've got to go." The other man tugs at his sleeve and Jovilios nods, not even taking his eyes off me. I look down at my feet with a devious smile.

"Yeah... send me the report later. I'll take Miss Blanchard back to the training centre."

I laugh out loud with delight. People already know my name and love me. And the Games haven't even started yet.

We both watch the other man waddle down the street and turn a corner. The second he's gone, Jovilios instantly swings back to gaze at me.

"We better get you back to the training centre," he says reluctantly, holding out the crook of his arm. I twine my arm through it and look at him.

"You know I have plenty of time to be back... and I'm so thirsty after that awful experience-"

Jovilios laughs. "You want a drink?"

"Well if you're asking." I flutter my lashes flirtatiously and he leads me to the classiest bar he knows, completely unaware I'm already holding all the cards in this 'relationship'.

He goes to order us our drinks; something everyone back at home never dare to do lest they face my wrath of getting the wrong champagne. But alas, I suppose I shall have to make exceptions for these Capitol folk. They will, after all, help me win. Blackmail is a glorious way to make people love you more.

My eyes wander around the airy room, people chattering and laughing loudly. I know I've been recognized by a gaggle of boys that whisper, eyes flickering to me every few seconds. I don't need them now but I still smile alluringly through half-lidded eyes. There's a large clock on the east wall proclaiming it's four in the morning. The people of the Capitol have odd sleeping and waking hours, even now I can see most lights on and parties in full swing. The walls are a shiny metallic silver, the stools crimson and sapphire and lavender. I can smell the fruity, bitter tang of alcohol and perfume, and almost taste it on my tongue as I lick my dry lips, the cracked lipstick needing to be slick and attractive once more.

Some of the patrons are whiling away time by playing card games, or talking about horrendously mundane things, but most are watching the huge TV which shows a news report and the weather on loop. It frequently displays adverts endorsing the Games, and I drift closer to view my opponents more, the sweet smell of Jovilios's aftershave clinging to me. I'm watching myself on the chariot rides when Jovilios calls me over with the crook of his finger and I turn around to see everyone watching me.

I smile widely and wave as they start jabbering excitedly about what an honour it is to have a tribute drink in here, and no tribute has ever done this before and isn't it _wonderful_?

I perch on the metallic stool at the bar and idly trace grains of sugar around with my finger as Jovilios pushes a tall glass across the counter to me. I eye it critically for a second before swishing the sugar to the floor and taking a sip of the electric blue drink. It's the taste of bitter berries and my lips and teeth tingle as I swallow. I can feel it tingling all the way down my chest and I shiver slightly.

"You look like a Victor in the making." Jovilios chuckles deeply as he takes a swig of his drink, which is lemony yellow in colour.

"I am." I twist my mouth into a smirk.

I raise my glass to my lips and take a gulp, not failing to notice his avid examination of my chest. Honestly. I tut audibly and his eyes flit to my face.

I smile sultrily, fluttering my lashes.

"So, Jovilios," I ask, leaning forward with my chin cupped by my hand, elbow resting on the spotless counter top. "Tell me about yourself. What do you do?"

"I'm a news journalist. My wife is a Gamemaker."

"Oh, what a pleasant surprise." I can't hide the excitement in my voice and he hears it too, smiling smarmily.

"I just couldn't resist," he brags, oozing sophistication.

"Well," I lean forward and whisper in his ear. "I don't think I can resist you either."

His eyes light up instantly and I trail my hands down his jawbone. He shivers slightly and makes to grab me.

"Ahh ah," I sing, leaning backwards. This is all too easy. "What sort of news do you write about?"

"The Hunger Games," he says, eyes glittering with excitement.

"Obviously you'll write about me," I retort quickly, trailing my thumb around the top of my glass.

"Obviously." He grins and I can feel his hand on my thigh. I close my eyes briefly and when they open again he's looking at me expectantly.

"Why don't we go somewhere else?" I suggest. "Somewhere more . . . private." I smile as he slaps a bill onto the table instantly.

"Let's go."

He slings an arm around my neck as we stride out of the bar into the street. "What place did you have in mind?"

"Kiss my neck," I order and he obliges without even questioning. He nips at my throat and I wince. That's right, make a love bite obvious. A couple walk past, eyes wide with curiosity. I make a face of agony, eyes pleading earnestly. The woman frowns and pats the man's arm and they stop unsurely.

Jovilios notices and retreats, grips my hand. I put my hand on the neck and feel the sore lump.

"They're watching us. Come on." He tugs me along with him and I look back, connecting gazes with the two Capitolites.

I trip along in my too high heels, hair mussed and cheeks flushed. When we go around the corner he instantly slams me against the wall and kisses me. I break away and laugh exhilaratingly at how everything is going perfectly as planned.

He leads me through streets back to the training centre, back to the elevators.

"Where are we going?" I ask, that drink making me slightly dizzy on my feet. I guess they must have strong alcohol levels in the Capitol, on account of last night, for one thing, and now this.

"The Gamemakers have their own floor if we wish to use it in between shifts. Everyone else will be with their families now until the Games."

Interesting.

We go down a floor, in between the lobby and the training rooms. He shows me along a lavish corridor before gently pulling me to a stop, opening a door with a flick of his wrist.

I stand on the threshold for a moment before following him in, eyes flitting over the large polished, perfectly furnished room. A much higher end version of our tribute rooms. Sunlight shines through the windows, making the furnished silver furniture dazzle eye-wateringly. Jovilios browses the wine rack. He pours out two glasses and clinks it against mine. I take a sip, a blend of sweetness in my mouth.

"Mmm." I lick my lips slowly. "That's good."

I saunter over to a bowl of cherries, plucking one from the pile and placing it in my mouth. Jovilios sits back and watches entertained as I stick my tongue out to show the tied cherry stem.

"Cool party trick," he says, amused.

"I have so many more," I breathe, gliding over to perch on his lap. I play with the top button of his shirt and his lips meet mine eagerly, fiercely. I pull back and slide off his lap.

"I don't do anything half-standards," I tell him disdainfully and unzip my dress. His laugh echoes around the room and his beady eyes are feverishly wild as he pulls me closer to him.

Those sagging muscles turn out to be much stronger than I anticipated, but that just makes the bruises and scratches even more impressive and in my favour. I stare up at the ceiling with a sigh, body bruised. I graze my fingertips across my pale skin, so unnaturally pale, and try to ignore the fingers threading through my hair sleepily. He's so old, getting tired after that quick menial session. I can clearly see the injections to vanish wrinkles and leave him ageless. Pity they don't work.

I'm aroused from my annoyance when a small beeping noise starts up. I barely need to exaggerate my irritation, groaning, head buried in his soft chest. He reaches over to grab the beeping device and I slap his arm. My sooty lashes flutter appealingly and my crimson lips dance a hair's breadth from his skin as I whisper that he really doesn't have to answer that thing.

He doesn't listen.

"You'll have to go now," he informs me, barely looking in my direction as he taps at it, oblivious to my maddening face.

I eye him coolly, sinking back against the sofa and not moving a muscle. "I don't think so. We've barely started."

His mocking laugh disappears into the bathroom and I scowl, eyebrows pulling together in hatred before stepping into my dress which lays discarded on the floor. I spy his belt and stuff it down the side of the sofa before raking my waves into an updo, combing out the knots with my fingers before briefly touching the bite on my neck that I'm sure has doubled in size.

I examine my nails nonchalantly as Jovilios walks back in, running a hand through his hair and fussing to find his belt.

"Have you hidden it?" he demands.

"No," I lie. "You know I really think this can go a whole lot better if we have a little talk first." I wave a hand for him to sit down and smile engagingly, leaning forward with a pout playing on my swollen lips.

"I have to go," he stresses and my hand waves in the air.

"Forget about them, they're not important and this won't take long. So Jovilios you said earlier your wife was a Gamemaker?"

He nods. "Yes. I can't tell you anything about the arena, sorry sweet-cheeks. I don't even know myself."

I scowl at the endearment and carry swiftly on, clasping my hands together.

"Now about that arena. I'm sure you understand a girl like myself needs sponsors, and after what has just happened I believe I've fully earned my survival needs yes?" I cock my head and his orange lips turn into a smile.

"You mean you want me to sponsor you?"

"Yes." I tilt my chin up slightly to observe him but he seems unperturbed at the moment… though not for long. I mask the sly smile that encroaches my lips and focus on Jovilios, who is rolling his neck back and forth in contemplation.

"Sure, I can send you something." He shrugs, straightening his tie as I laugh sarcastically.

"Something suggests one thing." I hold up a slim finger to demonstrate how little that is. "When I'm in that arena, I expect every single necessity I need sent as soon as possible." I pace around the sofa, leaning over to maintain eye-contact.

"I don't think so girlie." Jovilios chuckles. "Do you know how much that would cost? I'm not made of money."

"Could have fooled me," I sneer. "You'll get me whatever I need in that arena and more or else I'll tell everyone you raped me."

I watch amused as his face turns bone white, eyes wide and horror-struck as his mind processes what I've just told him. My smile grows wider.

"You- what?" He finally splutters, choking on his words. Spit flies from his mouth in horror and I pull a repulsed face before my eyes water, vision blurred as I sniff pitifully.

"Oh, it was so scary! I was scared for my life! Look he even left scratches!" I hold out my arms and tremble.

"You're crazy in the head," he says with disgust.

"But you're still going to sponsor me aren't you?" I smile widely, eyes narrowed with glee at his worry. How pathetic. He thinks he can be called a man? He has as much backbone and courage as a bug crushed underfoot.

"I imagine President Finn won't like citizens who harm his precious tributes before the arena. Against the rules isn't it? I wonder what will happen to you. Of course everyone else will be so horrified a Capitol citizen did it that you'll be in a lot of trouble. Probably executed." I shrug carelessly as he splutters, turning a mottled puce colour.

"No."

My hand whips out to slap him. "See now you've made me angry. And when I'm angry I get very violent," I hiss. "I wonder how your wife will react to you being a rapist. Tell me, do you have any kids?"

He lurches towards me and I roll my eyes unaffected at his mad ramblings. "Sick, evil, twisted little kid-"

"I don't care about what you think. I care about what everybody else thinks. They all like me; they all love me. Won't you love me too?" I pout. "Or do rapists-"

He storms out of the room and I hear him thudding down the corridor.

"I take it you'll let me tell everyone then!" I call after him and he strides back in and slaps a piece of paper on the table.

"Lovely doing business with you," I coo and smile happily as he leaves. I retrieve the belt from under the sofa and look at it carefully. Hmm... I double it up and test it on the sofa. The sound of it is harsh, slapping roughly. It's sure to sting.

I laugh.

"I'm going in the Hunger Games, a belt isn't going to hurt." I tell myself before holding out my left arm. My grip tightens on my right hand and I clench the belt, bending my arm back before-

My arm stings and starts to turn a blotchy red and I gasp slightly before smiling and leaving the room. I twine the belt around my waist and buckle it. In a mismatched way it goes with my outfit. It's certainly not suspicious. I examine the bruises on my skin as I leave and smile. They do absolutely nothing for my beauty.

It's seven in the morning when I waltz back up to the lobby restlessly. I can't be bothered to go back to sleep for a few hours and Creon is probably up by now. I shudder and sit down in one of the chairs framing the edges of the lobby, just watching people go by. Honestly some people do dress atrociously, I mean that man over there- He looks vaguely familiar actually...

"Father!" He automatically looks up at the sound of my voice, shoulders hunched up as he gazes around. Our eyes meet.

"What are you doing here?" I yell across as he walks towards me, looking balder than ever. I cringe at what the president must have thought of him. My father is so embarrassing.

"I told you not to get voted in." His opening words are spoken flatly, his eyes scrutinizing me, but he should remember before he came here that I've never listened to him. Just like he's never listened to me.

"I can't force my people to do something. You should know better than anyone, being mayor," I say, hands clasped together as I smile impishly. "They wanted me to compete. Sorry, Father."

He sighs, shooting me a knowing look as he runs a hand through his flimsy hair. "Admire, I know what you're like."

"What am I like?" I ask narrowing my eyes and the corner of his tight lips tug into a smile despite himself.

"Come on, I'll take you to get a coffee and we- we can talk about things. I'm not going to see you again because I'm going back to District 1 in a few hours," he informs me.

"Why Father, you'll see me when I get back! And I don't like coffee." I scowl.

"I can smell alcohol on your breath, Admire; you're having coffee," he tells me as I trail after him grumpily to a small, quaint (by Capitol standards) café.

He attempts to get me into a brighter mood by talking about his meeting with the president concerning District 1, and a new machine that can turn graphite into diamonds. I can't help but grudgingly listen, despite my mood. He was the one that got me interested in politics. Namely being able to boss people around and be in charge, but I do like learning everything about everyone as well. Like father, like daughter. Although I suspect Father doesn't blackmail people...

"Can I get the first diamonds when I come back?" I ask seriously, stirring my coffee as tendrils of steam curl into the air from the top of it.

"If you're there when they cut the ribbon."

"Of course I will be." I wave away his concern and swallow some of my black coffee. It's bitter and burns my tongue before I hastily put the cup back down. I hate coffee, hate the coffee breath that lingers in your mouth for hours after. I spy his briefcase propped up on one of the empty chairs and nod towards it accusingly.

"Did you go to the doctors about an appointment like you said?"

"Yes I did." Father fidgets slightly, loosening his collar and I tense.

"Well?" I demand instantly. "What did they say? Is it serious? Could I have an appointment before the Games?" I fire questions rapidly, leaning in closer as my fury ferments and grows. My fingernails dig into the soft palm of my hands as my Father avoids my gaze.

"I gave the Doctor's your file, and they looked at your blood test and ran some more tests."

I look at him impatiently. "And?"

"It's not imminently life-threatening," he reveals and everything goes fuzzy for a second.

"But it's still life-threatening?" I say in a tiny voice, and clear my throat as horror grips its talons into me. Copious amounts of fear which is ridiculous. I stare at the curling tendrils of steam coming from my coffee.

"You'll have basically the same symptoms as you have now, the vomiting, the stomach and back pain. But it won't get worse so long as you keep taking your medication."

"I don't have my medication." My stomach drops and I already wonder if it's getting worse just from the mere knowledge that it could be serious. I could be dying right now and it's my father's fault.

"You didn't bring it with you?" Father says astonished, eyebrows lifting up.

"I can't do everything, Father!" I say shrilly, voice rising with every word as I half rise off my chair. "What will happen if I don't-" I lower my voice. "If I don't take my medication?"

"I- the doctors are running more tests Admire, I'm not sure-"

"I hate you," I snarl viciously. "This is your fault! If I'd been checked earlier, I could have had my operation already and had a better chance of winning these Games." I shake my head furiously, shaking with anger. "If I die, it's your fault!"

My words hit him stronger than any slap or cut and he blanches, running a hand through his hair, which is greyer than ever. He takes a deep breath and the coffee cup trembles in his hand.

"You don't think-" He squeezes his eyes shut. "That I feel guilty?"

"You should." I glower.

"I do," he says quietly. "And when you die-"

I gape at him. "When I die?" I hiss, nostrils flared and hands balled into fists. "I'm not going to die, Father."

"Admire, you need to think realistically, you have an illness that's going to prevent you from doing your best-"

I look at him fumingly. "You're the one that told me to never give up! I'm a good fighter, I'll have you know, and I've thought of everything to help me in there!"

"What?" He asks warily.

"You'll see in the arena." I smile. "Dad, everything will work out. You know how Mother overreacts."

"What did your mother say?"

"She wasn't pleased." I pull a face at the memory. "Really, Father, I'll be fine. When I get back my house will be even bigger." I grin. "And I'll be even richer."

"And you'll help me with my duties just like before." He smiles wearily, eyes glistening with tears. Silly old fool; I'll be back in a few weeks.

"Exactly!" I nod. "Things will work out, Father." I drag my numb lips into a fake smile. "Just like you worked everything out."

I don't care about the pain that flashes in those miserable eyes, it's his fault I'm like this, that my stomach ulcer could be killing me. But he said not imminently, which means I can win the Games in a few weeks and be okay.

I'll still be okay.

I will be okay. Better than okay; I'll be on top of the world when I win.

"I'll miss my train," Father says quietly, peering at his gold watch that I gave him for a birthday present last year. He gets up and I automatically do the same, following him to the train station.

"I'll miss you." He hugs me tightly, and I squirm slightly at the contact. I don't really do hugs. "Who else is going to boss me around?"

"Me when I come back from the Games." I smile and he looks at me sadly.

"Oh, Admire…" He wraps his arms around me in a suffocating hug and I stiffen. I don't like hugs; they're unbearably awkward. He retreats quickly and I smooth out my outfit, pat my hair.

"You looked beautiful in the chariot ride, love." Father strokes my cheek with his thumb before leaving. I stare after him as he boards the train, and stand there for long after the train has gone.

I snap out of the daze when someone jolts me slightly as they walk past, and I go back to the District 1 floor miserably. My mind whirls on a continuous loop, thinking of terrible things that could happen. My stomach bulging, the pain so unbearable- My nightmare from the day of the Reapings suddenly flashes in my mind and when the elevator stops I stride past the breakfast table where everyone is sat eating.

"Admire," Jaloux calls sharply but I ignore my bitchy mentor, who thinks she's better than me when she's really not. I slap the scribbled sponsor note from Jovilios in front of Matt's astonished face without stopping.

"Admire you need to eat! You have training in twenty minutes!"

I ignore them all and slam my door shut, almost sprinting to the bathroom. Thoughts get tangled in my mind and my stomach twists, lurching. I have a session of violent vomiting, thanking God I almost always keep my hair up otherwise it would be covered in disgusting sick. I lean over the toilet, sweaty hands clutching the seat as I gasp for breath, limbs shaking.

I hate this, I hate this…

It's because of my father, it's my father's fault I'm ill.

I lay weakly on the floor, stomach feeling empty and hurting more than ever. My mouth tastes sour, acid coating my teeth and lips. Stringy saliva dribbles from my lips and my back throbs. My eyes water from the pain and I curl up in a fetal position on the floor, pressing my clammy face against the cool ground.

"Admire!" Canicus hollers, banging on the door with his fist. "We have to get to training!"

I curse back at him which just makes him angrier. I reluctantly get up and take a trembling sip of water before gagging again. Just...take a deep breath. Breathe. Again.

I slowly get up and close my eyes as dizziness assaults me. I wipe my sweaty face and turn to unlock the door with fumbling hands.

"Finally," Canicus growls, staring at me curiously. "Have you been crying?"

"No," I snap. "Let's go."

I swipe at my face, furious about my pathetic lapse. I need to concentrate to win these Games, not be a snivelling mess on a bathroom floor. To win these Games I need to have everything I want at my beck and call, as usual.

Canicus looks at my bruised and smacked arms but wisely says nothing, looking away when I stare at him fiercely. At least my tears will solidify my claim; that's something at least.

One sponsor is useless; I don't think Jovilios seems to realize even with all his help I'll be severely lacking for something.

He thinks I won't tell anyone about his 'incident' with me if he sponsors me for the entire time with a signed agreement for Matt.

Funny; I wonder how he'll react when I tell everyone anyway.


	25. A Dark and Beautiful Mind

Something a bit unconventional here. We had a chapter written so well (and massively) that we decided to split it in half. I know that this type of chapter may not appeal to everyone-but I think it's important to leave in since it's more a psychological (and pyscho) insight into the games.

Sorry for the delays. I wound up in the ER again-twice. (My lips swelled .).

Next update will be on Tuesday (hopefully!)

* * *

**Training Day 3, Part 1**

**Lucian Drake (D12 Male)**

** by JGrayzz**

* * *

_"Monsters are tragic beings; they are born too tall, too strong, too heavy, they are not evil by choice. That is their tragedy…"_

—Ishiro Honda

* * *

_Silence was disturbed by the echoing wail of an infant. It cried and cried through the night, never ceasing, never dying._

_Everywhere I turned, everywhere I heard it. I could not plug my ears, it would just get louder._

_The piercing cry reminded me of a Banshee-a Banshee wailing in the forest of my District. On quiet nights, locked within my chamber, I used to think I could hear the piercing scream of a Banshee, signaling someone's doom. It was eerie, and because of the wraith, I could not sleep. I could not eat. I could only listen._

_My family never believed in mythology, but my family was never like me. They've never felt what it was like to be me…just for a day. They dismissed my complaints as mere symptoms of my…sickness. Mere delusions, simple wild fantasies thought up by a troubled little boy._

_On this night, perhaps the wailing was that of the Banshee, finally coming to bring my doom. To end this wickedness, to destroy the beast before it wakes. If Death were intelligent, it would end it right now. I dare it to._

_Unfortunately, neither the crying ceased, nor the endless distorted cycle of images flashing in the darkness._

_"Welcome, tributes! Welcome, to the 25th annual Hunger Games! This year, the twist has been established, and you have all been voted in to compete in place of the usual drawing. This new establishment is a direct consequence of the deranged actions of a certain tribute in last year's Games. Because of this tribute, we have decided to take precautions to ensure such nonsense should be contained before it spreads. Thus, the Quarter Quell."_

_All the tributes were dazed, and had just recently woken up at the booming sound of the voice within the chasm. They were quite surprised to see that they had woken up chained to the ground-every single one of them. Some struggled, while others just cried._  
_"Tributes, if we can ask you just to quiet down just a decibel! The viewers at home need to at least be able to hear the voice of the Capitol! Please, tributes, calm yourselves down or face the consequences. Do not forget that we can directly destroy half of you in mere seconds, do keep this in mind!"_

_I was an observer, floating around in the sky above all the chained tributes, with the booming voice echoing through the caverns of the demented looking Arena. Swarms of large bats flew through the caverns, shrieking just as loudly, if not more audibly than the cries of the tributes._

_The arena platform was chained to the surrounding cave walls, with a large lava pit beneath the large platform. Caves and crevices lined the walls and bridges moved across the walls. The opening above the Arena cavern was an eternal black sky. An abyss above the hellish Arena. Lightning and thunder were the only indications that the blackness was not just mere nothingness._

_This place frightens me, it makes my blood turn to ice. It's not because of the arena's theme-but it's more the arena in general. Who could have devised such a hellish, such a cruel and wicked place?_

_Only one could have done so. Only one demented soul, a soul which was born into a life it never belonged in, and a soul which did not fit in with the ranks of society. An outcast, an oddity, a cancer hidden in the depths of the universe; it spread hatred and chaos in it's path, and affected the lives of innocent creatures out of mere curiosity._

_The voice boomed one last time, "Mr. Drake, I do believe they're ready."_

_And the world came to a standstill._

_As I floated around in the sky, observing the tributes chained on the platform, I began to realize that all of the children beneath me could indeed see me. They were crying not of their own cruel imprisonment, not of the wickedness of this arena, but they were frightened of me._

_Talk about narrow-minded._

_And so I flew, I flew down but I couldn't do anything about it. I tried to stop myself, but I could do nothing. This was one of those rare cases, a case of imprisonment within your own body. My mind was thinking these very thoughts, yes. But my mind was also programmed to attack. I was a predator, and I couldn't do a thing._

_I descended near the tributes while their chains were broken by more monstrosities of similar natures. The lava contained serpentine like creatures which rose thousands of feet above the platform and cascaded into the lava again, raining fire on the tributes and melting metal._  
_Other creatures shrieked and roared as they attacked the tributes. They all tried to flee, but I would not let them. I tried to tell them it wasn't my fault, that I was as just as much a prisoner as they were, but in place of human vocalization came only terrifying roars._

_All the mutts and creatures seemed to be inspired by my voice and attacked even harder than before. Lives were strewn away and ended seconds. Entire lives, entire memories, entire individuals were ended like nothing. It was all a joke, that human lives could just be ended like nothing. But I couldn't do anything._

_I came at the tributes some more, tearing flesh and cackles of enjoyment emitting from my mouth. This is fun I suppose._

_The demons in my head danced with glee, taunting me and laughing at my helplessness. And all the while, the crying never ceased._

_I was not the observer, I was the destroyer._

I awoke with a gasp, running my hands through my hair and my face pressed firmly into my hands. I was slightly drenched with sweat and I was breathing quickly and deeply. I made a choked-swallow sound and I quickly tried to piece together my surroundings.

It was so dark I couldn't even make out the shapes in the room. I tried to clear my head before I completely disengaged myself from the soft, silk sheets of the luxurious Capitol bed.

_Yes, that's right. Capitol…It all makes sense now. Some nightmares never really end do they?_

It seems I'm still trapped within this hell, with all these demons laughing inside me. Taunting me and my pity.

_Yes, these demons are awfully loud nowadays._

I sigh and reach for the bedside clock; it is electronic, and very expensive-looking. I want to smash it, for reasons unbeknownst to me. But I refrain at the moment, but only because it's 4:00 AM. This is probably one of the only nights I was able to sleep. And it's ironic that every time I do sleep, some blasted nightmare has to prevent me from doing so in the first place.

I get out of bed to go turn the lamp on, it's touch activated, which means all I have to do is touch the lamp. The technology doesn't fascinate me much, anything man-made or synthetic is probably the reason for the destruction of the Old World in the first place. The Capitol's need for computers to do the job for them will only get them so far. In 50 years or so, I don't expect the Capitol to last that much longer. It's probably going to be overrun by some corrupt president, and he's going to be overthrown by some teenagers or something. That's something to expect for the future generation, a whole lot of nonsense. Some old coot to take over, only to be overthrown like an ignoramus. It is not even a "what-if" scenario, it is bound to happen. With the corrupt government that Panem has fallen under, nothing lasts forever. All it takes is one loony and the fist comes crashing down in the end. I only wonder if District 12 will be the one to do it…

It's a pity really, to have seen the fall of a powerful government. Already, a District had been destroyed in the past. 13 was it? Yes, it was District 13. It was a bit drastic really, to destroy a nation which develops nuclear warheads. The Capitol needs support, they need defenses, and they destroyed their source. What is the Capitol going to do if Panem is attacked? Send out mutts to wipe out opposing colonies?

But, I digress. I realize now I've been staring at a lamp far too long, and it's now 4:17 AM. Have I grown bored too soon? I've always had a problem controlling my boredom. And it's probably that exact reason why I decided to cause such a hassle in District 12. I didn't exactly mean anything I did there. When I threatened to set the Justice Building on fire, I didn't actually mean it. When I continuously stole goods from the Markets, I didn't really mean it.

I did enjoy starting fires though, everybody was panicking despite how small the fires were. I found it entertaining to be honest. Thievery was humorous in the beginning, but of course I got bored. I came to the conclusion that thievery was for cowards anyway. But I kept it up, and I terrorized all sorts of people.

I wasn't doing anything _bad_, and I barely harmed anyone. It was all for a good cause, it was for the right cause. I wouldn't have gotten voted if I hadn't done those things, because no one would have noticed me. I was taking my pills regularly during those acts as well, which means I didn't really mean them.

I was even a little lethargic at times. Off the pill, I probably would have embraced those things. I'm more impulsive when I'm…off the pill. It comes with the curse. To be honest, I don't know what happens when I'm off the pill. I've never allowed myself that pleasure these days. I do know that I get these anxiety attacks, and then…I don't know. Something happens, but I can't seem to remember at the moment. Cyrus never really told me in detail, he was too busy always smuggling my pills. I've rarely been a week without them.

I relax on the bed in a lazy position, pondering the days previous. I believe it was on the First Training Day that I made sure to make a good impression, and I made sure to make an impression with everyone who talked to me. I spoke different from how I normally spoke, which I must admit I excelled very well in. I made sure I was as charismatic and charming as possible, which has always helped me stay out of trouble with the Peacekeepers and Mayor in District 12. They respected me because of my maturity, and they learned to trust me despite my…intimidating appearance.

And that's what I've done here, that's the skill I'm using to convince these people. I can be as friendly as long as possible and as long as it takes. Even if I have to use this tactic all the way to the Games-then so be it. I'm prepared to do anything to achieve my goal, and my destiny. I will do anything to win…

It really was thrilling, putting on a show for everyone, lying to everyone I talked to. Every time I lie I just have to laugh. It's quite thrilling, and humorous looking at people's reactions. I can't say I've never been honest-because I have, many times. I'm just a little different from others when it comes to telling the truth. I call it caution; I don't trust very many people anyway, but I like to make people trust me. It's a hypocritical little fact about myself, but I'm a walking contradiction. I'm unpredictable, and perhaps there are those who can't handle it.

I made sure on the first Training Day, that I was alone with tributes before I talked to them. I watched carefully, ever so slowly. When I saw an opportunity present itself for a conversation, then I did so. Every person I spoke to, saw me and me alone. Perhaps there are some moments where others were in the nearest vicinity, and of course I couldn't help the Capitolites which stood near almost every station. The majority, however, stood alone.

I call these little one on one moments, "reservations". I reserved spots for the ones I wanted to speak to, or ask questions to be more specific. At most, these little reservations lasted 3-6 minutes. I was to the point with my declamations, I wasn't trying to hold lengthy conversations with these children. My reasoning for such reservations was to pinpoint their weaknesses. I was always skilled with deductions and observations, my sister appointed me with the title of Detective when I was younger because of how aware I was of my surroundings. Without these skills, I wouldn't have made it far bringing animals to the traders.

Now, these skills can be put to the ultimate test, and indeed they have been. I can remember a particular moment on the first day where I acted like an imbecile; I asked a tribute how to best execute a sword swing. The reaction was comical, as was the demonstration, because they appeared to be just as absent-minded as myself, which already presented me a weakness. I made sure to memorize every detail, I do need to work on names though.

The difficult part is trying to discern if they are pretending as well, and I wouldn't doubt if they are. Many of these tributes appear to be as just intelligent if not more intelligent than even myself. However, the likelihood of the latter is disputable. My intelligence was estimated to be quite high by Cyrus himself.

Back to the topic at hand, I made up to 10 of my reservations during the First Training Day. I wanted to make sure no one else occupied my or their time while I spoke to them, so I even led some of them astray to different stations. I do think a pat on the back is in order for all my troubles.

_I did well, I must admit. I made much progress on the first day even if I didn't exactly "train" like the majority._

I detract from my pondering to turn over to the bedside clock. The clock now reads 4:45..._damn_. Not enough time wasted. The clock has an array of other buttons on the top of it. One reads "Radio", so I go ahead and press it. Like it implies, various music stations are able to played on the clock. I've never had the pleasure of being able to listen to music, let alone watch any cable television. The televisions in District 12 are only programmed to play Capitol TV, as well as the News. Apparently, here in the Capitol, there are over hundreds of channels.

The majority of the music played on this device is horrid. I fail to understand how anyone can bear listening to all this nonsense. If this is the trash the Capitol listens to, then I really wasn't missing out in 12. Nearly every song is fast-paced and futuristic, as if they were made by extraterrestrials or something. I eventually come across a station that I can bear hearing. The music sounds…beautiful. It sounds like an orchestra of some sort, I can detect a piano and some violins. It emits the feeling of something ancient, yet tasteful. I can definitely relax to something like this.

I sit down upon the fancy bedding once more to think about earlier occurrence. Training Day 2 was relatively uneventful, actually, nothing of any importance happened on that day at all. While all the other tributes were preoccupied with their petty problems and wasteful training, I found myself sitting near the knot-tying station. Yes, you heard right. I sat upon the ground, and I tied complex knots the entire couple hours. You could say I definitely wasted an entire precious day of training, and I have to agree.

Physical training was never my forte, but I excel in particular weapons if you recall. I had practiced with knives, a broadsword, and even a sword-axe hybrid back in District 12. I even recall an axe as well, which I always seemed to have trouble swinging around with one hand. I'm a scrawny kid, and I am physically unable to overcome any larger predator. What makes things worse, is that I'm not the least experienced in projectile weapons, which would have made up for my physicality. Truth is, I never had a bow and arrow lying around my house, and knife-throwing is just not something I'm very adapted to.

I'm good with close-quarters combat, and all of hell shall be unleashed upon the victim. I didn't see a Khopesh in the Training Center, I doubt it's still around. I saw Sickles, and some morning stars but nothing of any interest. Perhaps the Capitol holds a surprise for Mr. Drake.

Unfortunately, I did not train physically. Training Day 2 was a day for mental processing, and I pondered everything. I observed everything. Nothing of significance happened on this day in relation to my training. It's a taboo thing, to completely ignore such a useful opportunity, but I do not wish to conform. I was training with a weapon much more dangerous than anything the Arena has ever seen. What makes up for my physical weaknesses is my complex mind. I was training mentally, and that's all that really matters. I suppose I'm just a little different, that's all.

The most interesting of my Capitol journey was on the first day. One instance has struck me as the most peculiar. There are all sorts of peculiar things in the Games, and the tributes are no exception. I found great joy in talking and observing these children on yesterday and the day before. But it was on the first day that something I never expected to happened, did indeed happen.

I had come across a moment of realization whilst at the knife throwing station. I was there for pure entertainment, watching some tributes attempt to hit the red circles on the dummies. It was very interesting, and I managed to draw out a few weaknesses or two. But there was only one particular moment that continues to haunt me still. For reasons beyond me, I had decided to grab a throwing knife and attempt to hit the target in vain. It was one of my more impulsive moments, and it had been almost three days since the last pill. The idea wasn't a horrible one, though. Even if I had horribly missed a target, it wouldn't have made that much of a difference. I was honestly an amateur at knife throwing, and it would provide other tributes with an indication of my skill. They would have dismissed me as a usual District 12.

Fate didn't appear to be at my side that moment, and my grip on the knife was loose, and it fell out of my hands, with the handle aiming directly downwards and the blade right near my skin. It was the worst thing that could have occurred, because it would have caused a scene. The knife station was a popular spot at the time, and many tributes were sparring. I didn't mind the pain, but it was just the wound in general.

I remember distinctly that I had become literally entranced in the scarlet liquid that dripped down my palm. I couldn't move, and everything else around me was insignificant. The only focus on my mind was the blood. It wasn't much, not much at all. I had dealt with buckets of it trying to gut animals back at the district. But, the cut seemed to have sparked some sort of memory. And I still don't know what happened. Just that it did, and just that I had bled.

I'm not obsessed with the stuff, such an admittance would be on the verge of insanity. No, I am not obsessed. More like…intrigued. It was just that single moment in time-if I were to sustain such an injury now, I wouldn't be as affected.

_Would I?_

Eventually, I had snapped back to reality when I heard a voice dangerously near me. I was not to be conversed with unless I instigated it. I had to make reservations on that certain day, any other day would be fine, but on that particular day, I couldn't have any of it. It would be bad for my plans, and one misstep would ruin everything. The voice repeated itself once more, and then I had a chance to look up and see the person.

It was a girl, and I recognized her…it was a Career. That little episode I pulled had just turned dangerous. I made a rule to myself on the way to the Capitol: I would not communicate in any form with a single Career. I could only observe, and that was what I had been doing for the first hour. That commandment had just been broken, and it was too late for forgiveness.

Roulla was her name, and she had asked me if I was alright. I was in disbelief, I didn't show it, but I felt a sense of weakness. I did not like showing weakness, and I had found myself kneeling on the floor, staring at my injured hand. I remember quickly rising to my feet, and seeing what appeared to be genuine concern. It was strange. It was strange in the fact that she was a Career, and because she actually cared. I dismissed her concern with a nod and hid my hand within my pocket. Nobody else seemed to notice the interaction, including the other Careers, who appeared to be busy elsewhere.

Long story short, my plans had almost been ruined. I made no other mistakes that day, but what's happened, happened. I will never understand what had happened to me, and I never will. Roulla's motherly sort of attitude really stumped me, and in other moments she appeared to be very hardened to the world, and quite robotic in her actions. She's a typical Career, but that little trick she pulled put me on edge, and I didn't like it. She invaded my boundaries and violated my commandments. I can't let this go, and I will never let it go. If push comes to shove, she will have to be killed, as soon as possible, but in that moment when she showed genuine concern, I've found her weakness.

_Speaking of weaknesses…_

I got up off the bed, and went to my clothing drawer. I took out my uncle's journal from the bottom of the pile of clothe, and flipped to the back pages which were now becoming filled with lists and words. Yes, this little book will be completed when this is all over, and the final page will be within my grasp in the end.

As of this moment, my journal entries are combined with Alistair's and the story has continued once more. This account of the Quarter Quell will become history, and it will be treasured for years.

I flip to a page which says at the top, "Tribute Notes". On this page, contains a list of every single tribute in the Quarter Quell, except myself. I made a mental note of everyone, their weaknesses, and recorded them within this journal. When I get a chance to look at the training scores, I'll be sure to bring this book with me and record those as well. Naturally, I bolded all of the Careers, which include the districts of 1, 2, and 4. It's usually the same every year, and it's always good to be prepared.

There are others I'm concerned about though, and I italicized them. I call this worrisome group of tributes, "The Serpents." They are hazardous, and have the potential to be poisonous. You can't trust them, and they have the tongues of a snake. They are just as dangerous as the Careers. In particular, this little group consists of Atalanta, Juniper, Brennadon, and Erik. I've seen what they can do, and I don't like it.  
Besides the Careers, these tributes could prove to be some of the most dangerous this year. They've got strong personalities, but they are skilled. If I meet these tributes face to face, I'm done for. I have no defenses, and the majority of the Serpents seem to excel in projectile weapons, with the exception of Brennadon, who I'm not exactly sure what he favors.

I don't anticipate meeting them, however. The Careers most likely have got their eyes on them as well. If the Careers were smart, they would want to track down and eliminate the most dangerous at the beginning. If the Careers were smart, they would be just as wary of these tributes as I am. In the initial bloodbath, these tributes are going to be hunted down like rodents.

In the unlikely case that I have a meeting with any of the Serpents, I would prey on their weaknesses. I have little chance of physically dominating them if I can't get up close, but I have to prey on their faults and fears, and eventually, a battle a wills has to ensue. Physically, I can never hold anything against them. Mentally, however, _I can bring them to their knees_.

There are others on my list, but I appointed them with a star. The starred tributes are what I like to call the Rats. A very unappealing name, but snakes eat rats, and the Careers, are just the Careers. I'm just trying to get everything organized here.

The Rats, are simply little rodents. However, they are my lab rats. They are test subjects that I can potentially use to my advantage against any prey. They have claws, and they've got the wit and cleverness to back it up, but in the end, they are soft, and they will either die quickly or become bait. The Rats consist of Bastian, who I find to be of similar intellectual status with. He's a smart man, and he'll get far. It's his sensitive nature that will be his downfall, and I've seen him at Training. He's quiet, and trains just to stall time. He doesn't seem to know much about weapons, but it could all just be a ruse.

It's a game of chance when it comes to the Games, and I'm prepared for the unexpected just as everyone else should do likewise. Damian is of a similar nature, and he's quick too. He's clever, and he looks like a survivor. He'll make it far, but unfortunately, I might not be able to use him. He's too independent, and he looks agile enough to make it quite well on his own.

I move my finger down to the next starred name, Londyn. This girl could prove useful, but it's also a big game of chance, because she also has a very obvious weakness. She happens just so happens to be blind, and it was one of the first weaknesses I was able to spot. She slowly made her way to the knife throwing station on the first day, and from what little I saw of her abilities, she's definitely got skill. She couldn't exactly pinpoint the targets, but when she threw, it always hit where her hand directed it. It never strayed from its path, and I could have sworn they were like bullets.

_But alas, her obsidian-black eyes are just that-gem-filled eyes._

I could utilize this very weakness to my uses, and it will only take one swipe of a blade, just a little threat or two. She'll have to listen to everything I say, or it will cost her everything. Her life will be just as expressionless as the black orbs within her eyes. She's too precious of a tribute to be used as bait, she's too useful for something like that. Her skill with projectiles could have had her placed in the Snakes if it wasn't for her ailment.

_She would be a good huntress._

Next, and potentially the most useful, is Alexis. If there were going to definitely be any lab rats, it would certainly be her. Alexis entertains me the most, and I sorted through many advantages and possibilities to her usefulness most of yesterday. Her little stint on the first day proved to me that she is entirely capable of being my follower. The Peacekeepers were extremely wary of her on the second day, which I thought was interesting. I happened to notice that she stayed away from any sort of physical weapon, such as axes, swords, or knives. I have come to the assumption that she fears these weapons. Whatever the reason is beyond me, but that flash of terror and rage could prove instrumental during the Games.

_Yes, I could definitely use that one. Her self-destruct mechanism could really make a dent if I use her against the opposition._

I also find Anya humorous to watch, but that would be the only reason for any possible use. I predict a short life for that girl, she seems a tad too…lazy.

_Speaking of death…_

I run my finger down the page until at stops at the name, "Maeve". Yes, I've seen what this girl is capable of. I listened in on her antics, whether they were true or not is anyone's guess. I almost wanted to approach her myself, but I didn't really much care to hear of my own demise.

_For me, if it ends, then it ends. But I will end it on my own terms._

I hold interest for her talent, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to find her after the bloodbath, if she remains alive of course. She's as thin and frail as a twig, and surely she can run quickly enough to avoid her own doom. The most hulking problem will be locating her afterwards; because unless she sets up a fortune-telling booth of some sort, then I will have to find her myself. _I do not_ want to do that.

I haven't found most of their weaknesses yet, and I will have to do some more observations today in order to get a better idea. I suppose I will just have to run down the list in any case. I look at a page in the journal, which featured my great plan. I laugh audibly at the page, and my eyes scan over the text. This single page is a concise and structured organization. It is a page which consists of the path that I have chosen to undertake. Of course, this is only plan A. I'll make it a surprise.

I sigh and snap shut the journal, and put it beneath all the clothes in the dresser. I look at the clock-radio once more, it reads 5:22 AM. The radio is playing a particularly gloomy piece of music at the moment, so I turn it up. I look out the gold embroidered, silk curtains, and the early sun is threatened by a large blanket of grey and even black nimbus clouds. It looks like it's going to storm, and bad. Lightning flashes miles away from here, and the clouds move ever so slowly. If it storms, it will be a couple hours from now. It is impossible to open the window, which would prevent any sort of escape or self-demise. District 12 is the highest floor level anyways, and my escape wouldn't be a pretty one.

I'm still concerned about some things, and he most recurring thought is the fact that I hadn't made myself less known to the Careers. I am very disappointed with myself, because I broke a commandment, and I broke a promise. I haven't really thought about this fact before, and I feel I mentally have to punch myself because it would be disastrous if they had considered me as dangerous. Canicus had made it audibly clear that the Careers would strictly consist of Districts 1, 2, and 4. His reasons are beyond me, but I could only assume it would cause him more trouble and worry if he had more people in his group.

I do recall a year in which the Careers had been so large, the Capitol had to send mutated bears after the group. Over 5 of them perished, which limited the group significantly. Even so, despite the usual size of the Careers this year, it doesn't matter if I was with them or not. They had taken long glances at me, and this is something I hate to admit. I do not like this fact, and yesterday they either seemed to take great interest in me, or saw great danger in me. I made sure that my charisma was only to be seen with one tribute at a time…I was almost sure that I had spoken low enough.

_This would not do._

I unconsciously began pacing around the room, which is something I do to help me think. I need to consider my plans; I made sure not to do anything of importance on the first or second Training days. Did the Careers see me talking? Was I too loud? Had people questioned my motives?

I had wanted to pretend to be somewhat adequate with weapons, but nothing that would have labeled me as dangerous. It is necessary that I surprise these people, but not in a…firework sort of way. Rather…a match. Yes, a match. The firework will go off in the end, and you will be prepared for that. But a match? It's the danger that was there all along.

_Yes-a match in the forest! You knew it was burning, you knew it was spreading through the trees. Perhaps there could have been a way to prevent the destruction, but I didn't see any steps taken to cease it while it was still small, while it wasn't a danger. It wouldn't have been such a hazard if there had been steps taken to prevent such a disaster. Now it's consumed half the forest, and still going. It's a hot, and humid day out-which makes it much worse._

_So now you have a predicament on your hands; you can attempt to put it out, but there is miles and miles of it and spreading, and you might suffocate if you go too far in. And if you're a dimwit, you might even get burned. So what is there to do? You can't put it all out, and you can't throw water on all of it. What can be done?_

_Nothing. Simply, nothing. The only thing to do is wait. That would be the wise course of action; hope for the best while witnessing the worst. Perhaps you could even pray to the gods. Challenge fate; flip a coin, maybe a game of rock paper scissors?_

_No, you had your chance. Now you must wait. You saw the match, it was there the whole time, and it was burning. But did you stop it?_

I continued pacing through my room, smirking at my other thoughts. Allowing any fleeting thought to pass through my mind and consume my desires. My desires have been testing my patience, and I can only wonder why that is. For the last several minutes, I've been feeling the need to do something drastic, something to quell this dull waiting time. I don't normally feel this way, because I can better control it.

I came to the Games to feel stimulated, to feel that rush of adrenaline and excitement, but most of all to relish in my desires and live the fantasies I cannot seem to relinquish out of my desensitized mind. There had been numerous occasions in my young life, where I could not feel this stimulation. And because I had not felt it, I had to take drastic measures to make sure I felt this certain excitement. Some of my more dangerous of times had occurred in these moments, and I could never really hold back against these urges.

Right now, I do not feel stimulated. Yes, I sound animalistic, and it may seem as such that I may even be an animal, only submitting to instinct. Which is ironic, because that is exactly what the Games is doing. It's causing us children to become little animals, ignoring human evolution and sending all of us down the chain. We're turning into primates once more, and it almost sickens me. This is the reason humankind may have been better suited to go extinct than to have survived the destruction of the Old World.

I am of a higher status however, and I feel as such that I should be treated with respect. I have gotten little of it from these Capitolites, and the only way to truly control this inner turmoil and monstrosity…

_…oh._

Yes, there is a way. And the fix is currently in my boot, which I had strictly prohibited the Capitolites from fondling with. My boots are not to be touched, no exceptions. For particular reasons of course…

I've just realized I've been shaking, and horribly at that. I must have been shaking since I woke up, because it's worse than I imagine. The only thing that has been distracting me is my thoughts, and my thoughts are being plagued by unfulfilled desires. I'm beginning to think about things I shouldn't.

I know that if I take a pill, it will only "cure" me for 2-3 days, I'm surprised I'm still able to think straight without a pill. I've never fully lasted the fourth day, even in in District 12. Which is why I was frequently locked in my bedchamber, which to this day makes me wonder. What would I have done if I wasn't? I'm definitely "seeing red" by day 5 at the most. It's…what? Been almost four days now?

_It can't possibly have been that long…_

There's a catch to this whole "cure" thing, and this certain catch will either make me or break me in the Arena. This certain catch is what I need to make it far, and this certain catch will allow everyone to see just who Lucian Drake is.

You see, in order to truly relish in my victories, in order to fulfill my destiny, I must feel death in my natural state. This is a commandment that cannot possibly be broken, and I can't allow myself to miss this single chance. I can only play the Games once, and if I lose, then it's lights out. I will not get a second chance, this is it. If I mess everything up, then I'll have been born for nothing. Fate put me here for a reason, and I have a purpose.

My purpose was whispered to me in the night, within my chamber. I listened, and I was certainly skeptical. I knew from a young age, that these desires, these sick manifestations, they needed to be fulfilled. And I was given a chance.

_I'm too numbed with these damn pills._

In this absent-minded, pill induced state that I'm always fogged in, I can barely feel or understand anything of true importance. I hate to take any more, and maybe perhaps I can wait just a few more hours. I can probably halt these desires, and disguise my shaking for some odd hours more. It shouldn't be that bad, I've even hid my symptoms in front of the Mayor before.

As soon as the thought passes, my legs buckle and I literally fall to the marble floor, shaking horrendously.

_What the hell?_

I almost enter a state of panic, because this has never happened to me before. I'm literally shivering, as if I was left outside in minus degree weather for an hour. I've never shook this much before, as a matter of fact, I've never exactly fallen right on my ass because of it either.

I try to get up, but my hands are too unsteady, and I'm feeling very lightheaded. I wasn't standing stiff or anything, I don't understand these bloody shivers.

I basically just remain sitting on the floor, because there's no way in hell I'm getting up without support. I'm all the way over by the window, and of course there are no sills. The bed is over 10 feet away and…

_…whatever._

I never understood it myself-why I shake…It's just something I can't explain. There's no word for it, this just happens every time. I've looked in the books, I asked Cyrus, and I even asked that stupid doctor. The only thing I could come up with is some sort of anxiety attack, maybe even withdrawal symptoms. This is something that traces all the way back to my childhood though, before I even had my hands on pills.

I've recently concluded that it could be some sort of subconscious defense mechanism, but to me, it's a warning. It's a siren. And when it's as bad as it is now, it's code red.

_I need a pill._

If anyone sees me in this state, they'll think I'm insane. I'm not insane, and never have been. I'm level-headed when I need to be, and I even freed myself of all emotional delusions. I'm of a higher mental status than most of society; it's only coincidence that fate granted me the ability to whisk it all away. I don't find happiness nor sadness necessary, mostly because I cannot comprehend them. Truth be told, human emotion confuses me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel slight fear once in awhile, but I've never felt love or anything. Cyrus told me I'm just confused, and that love will find me one day.

Hell, I don't even understand how someone can cry because they see someone else crying. Grief? Pity? For what? Because they're sad, or because you need something to feel sad about?

Obviously, empathy is something I've never really picked up over the years. As a child, I never cried because I felt "sad", I cried because I desired something. My needs have to be fulfilled, because my needs are important. Knowledge is necessary, but emotions? I learned how to emulate and notice them from reading Psychology books back in District 12, but I'm still trying to learn more about them. It's something that cannot be helped.

Despite my…distance from "normalcy", I make an effort to not appear as insane as people believe me to be. Immature children at home used to call me "crazy", or "wacko", apparently word got around that I was being locked up because of my "problems". Those things occurred to me as early as age 12, and I've been paranoid about it ever since.

I wish to maintain an anonymous quality, to fit in a little bit with the crowd. I've grown quite a bit, and now self control is becoming a hassle. Too much of a bother. I dislike having to hide the urges and fantasies from everyone-and I've never even told Cyrus. For a long time now, I've had the smallest urges, to witness and control fate. To…be able to control death.

_Is that a bad thing?_

Of course not. I'm sure plenty of people have received the same urges once or twice in their lifetime. Why wouldn't they? Capitol can do it, and if they can do it, can't I do it too? The only reason I admire them is because of this ability-the ability to inflict death.

I found out about the Games at age 6. Stumbled into the television room while my guardians were bickering. Was fascinated ever since.

And so here I am, after tearing my own body apart in my chamber day in and day out, trying to train myself to resist large amounts of pain, training myself in the field of pure willpower and mentality. Not to mention I excelled with the weapons I had available.

But sometimes, I feel as if I just can't wait anymore. Sometimes, back at home I used to feel like beginning my own little Games. It would have been so simple to burn down the Justice Building, then cause mass mayhem while I set every Peacekeeper on fire. I swear that if I hadn't taken my pills regularly, bad things would have happened. I would have relented to my desires, I swear on it. Even if my family had to deal with my consequences, I wouldn't care. To hell with them all anyway.

Right now, I feel these urges very strongly. I'm currently fantasizing to go to every level I can while I slaughter every tribute with an axe from the Center. It shouldn't be too difficult, but it's unrealistic. I wouldn't make it past the 1st level, the Peacekeepers would be on me before I even got out of the elevator. If I can somehow influence the Capitolites that these children are possessed by a higher power, and that they desire to rebel against the Capitol, then I have a chance. Then no one would stop me. I can do it! I just simply need to rise on my feet!

_What the hell am I thinking? I need a pill…_

My thoughts aren't exactly starting to make sense, and I need to get to the bathroom. I'm able to get up regularly again, but I'm still shaking just as bad. I almost run to the bathroom. I've already taken the pills from my boot and have the small bottle placed on the sink. I'm breathing very deeply, and I need to calm down before anyone wakes up.

I take the pill bottle and shakily pop open the lid before firmly placing it on the sink. I take a few calming breaths but they barely help me. I'm already feeling a headache coming on. I take a glance in the mirror to note my reflection, to judge my normalcy.

I don't see normal when I look at myself, all I see is a monstrosity. A beast that needs to be chained within a dungeon and never let back out. I run my hands over my pale face, beginning to admire the deadly reflection I see. I must admit, although my stature is less than intimidating, my icy glare and gloomy complexion make up for it. If eyes could induce tragedy, then mine would do so.

In the Arena, I will be feared. They will be sure who to look out for in the wilderness. Perhaps a few specks of blood on my face would do, make me look even more deadly while out there. I will have to work on that. I note the smile I'm giving myself in the mirror, another unconscious act that I don't remember initiating. I quickly frown at the complexion, and take note of the swarm of more delusional thoughts flying around my mind.

_I can not have this!_

I smack myself in the face, hoping some sort of small pain would detract from the small urges and subconscious thoughts and fantasies, perhaps I could even make the shaking stop for awhile. The smack doesn't even make a mark on my face, and I scowl at my reflection even more.

There is a distinct throbbing in my head now that I cannot pinpoint, and synchronized with the throbbing is the sound of another beat-my heart. It's like the ticking of a clock, combined with the deep pain within my temples. It's causing everything to go in slow-motion, and I don't know if I'm just hallucinating anymore. I can't even lift my head past my shoulders, not to mention I'm shaking like a rabid dog.

_Too much confusion…_

I impulsively bash my head against the mirror, shards of glass fall down into the sink and cracks now line the remaining pieces. With what little I can see in the cracked shards, blood is now dripping down a cut in my forehead, and I don't know what to make of my now demented looking appearance.

I harshly whisper words out loud to myself, "Get a hold of yourself, Lucian. G-get a grip, alright? Did you hear what I said? CALM YOURSELF DOWN!"

I fall to the floor, clutching my head in my hands, trying to make the throbbing and the ticking noise go away. I shakily, albeit clumsily, reach for the bottle of pills on the sink while on the floor. I struggle to grasp hold of the entire bottle and it falls to join me, sending pills flying everywhere. I grab one of the fallen, blue tablets and quickly swallow it.

I lose my balance trying to climb back to my feet and only end up falling to my knees again. I simply just lay there now on the bathroom floor, allowing myself a moments of rest, waiting for the pill to take its effects.

As if things couldn't get any worse, there is a rapid knock at the door. Thank the gods that I had locked the damn thing.

_What the hell? Who would be knocking right now?_

Another knock. I really don't feel like answering that right now, whoever's knocking will just have to wait until this pill has taken its effect. I'm incredibly dangerous right about now. Apparently they couldn't wait, because I hear a sigh from outside the door and a muffled voice call from behind it. Luckily, it's my district partner and not clown-face.

"Lucian…if you're in there…Or if you're even awake. Training is in 30 minutes, so if you can, pleas-"

I hear another voice from outside the door, most likely clown-face lecturing her or something. I hear another loud sigh and Galla continues.

"Try to hurry it up a little, please? Our escort is giving me crap because you're late, so um…Just, yeah…"

I call out from in the bathroom, just to give her some reassurance that I'm not dead, "Ye-yes! Every…Everything is fine! I just…fell. Yes, the floor…is awfully wet! I'll be out in a minute!"

Well, she doesn't give an answer, but she didn't sigh either, which is always good. I mentally smack myself for not sounding convincing enough, but right now I'm teetering on the edge of a crow and a dove, and the dove is still far away.

I'm still out of breath and just now trying to calm myself down, the pill has barely taken effect but I'm already feeling that wash of familiar calm spread over me. I touch my hand to my forehead and feel warm liquid dripping down.

_Clown-face is going to give me hell for this._

I finally find the strength to get up, and I find the pill bottle that fell on the floor, along with all the scattered blue tablets as well. I examine the bottle and scrutinize the label. The only thing it reads is "For L".

There is a moment of critical debate as I contemplate the usefulness of these pills. While I fail to understand the nonsense that had just occurred earlier, it does feel satisfying to be "numbed" again. The Games is but a couple days away, and if I continue to take these pills throughout them, I will have broken one of my commandments. These commandments aren't just something I can break, I've written them in my own blood. I've cut them into my skin, and I breathe these very commandments. I've already broken one, and if I break anymore I will fail to bring honor to the Drake lineage. The Games have been a war ground for the Drakes, and I want people to shake in their boots when the surname Drake is uttered in the Capitol…

_This is everything I have ever wanted, participating in the Games and fulfilling my destiny. Why should I be under the influence? Why should I limit my true potential?_

If I'm sick in the head, which I highly doubt, then so be it. There is nothing else to it. If this sickness can be cured through inflicting pain and death…then so be it. I'm obsessed, and I hate it. I hate it so damn much. I hate that I relish in the sins of humankind, but I was born this way, and I shall fight this way.

_I shall die this way._

I hastily pick up all the blue tablets save for one, which I had embedded into my journal, and held them in my fist. I stood before the toilet and flushed the pills down.

_I apologize, Cyrus, but this was meant to be. And now it has come to be._

I take a shower and wash the blood from my forehead, ignoring the mess I made in the bathroom. I put on some loose clothing, and finally head to the door. I adjust my collar and hair, now calmed and fresh from the earlier episode and breathe deeply as I open the door.

I open the door to Galla, my district partner. She has the most obvious look of irritation I've ever seen, and she's biting her nails as she waits in the hallway.

"Is something the matter?" I ask her in my most elegant of tones, hoping to calm her a little.

Galla doesn't seem to care or notice and simply raises her eyebrow and peers inside the room. "Um, what's with the music?"

I sigh and go back in the room to turn the radio off, which is still on the classical and instrumental station that I've grown fond of in the past couple hours.

"Sorry about that, it's a very nice piece," I say sheepishly.

Galla nods with an odd look on her face and we continue down to the dining hall.

"What took you so long?" she asked quietly.

I cringe at the incident I had in the bathroom, "Well, you know, shower is a bit hard to operate; it was difficult trying to even turn the water off. For some reason, the Capitol found it necessary to make the "On" button an entirely different one from the "Off" button-and they chose to hide it as well."

"Did…were you able to make any alliances yesterday?" she looks at me with an almost quiet anticipation.

I shake my head with disappointment, and Galla sighs. She continues to look at me though, and has to do a double-take.

"What happened here…your forehead?" Galla gestures toward the small cut on my forehead from the glass.

She is utterly bothersome, with her questions flying here and there. I'm beginning to wonder if she's inquiring me in genuine concern, or if she's trying to stall the inevitable awkwardness that surrounds us whenever we meet.

I'm about to plague her with questions of my own but a certain clown-face named Karina steps in our way, arms crossed and caked with the brightest make-up I've ever seen. Almost enough light to illuminate the entirety of District 12.

Karina clears her throat in an attempt to appear intimidating but I simply stare at her. Galla fidgets impatiently at my side, searching for a watch that doesn't exist.

"And you, mister. Where do you think you're going?" Karina shrieks.

I clench my teeth and force a smirk, "Off to explore the wilderness! You coming along?"

Galla rolls her eyes and stares at another nonexistent clock.

Karina doesn't find my remark humorous and clears her throat again. "Not today, Mr. Drake. Instead, you're going to train! Hm? Yes, train. For at least a little while at least!"

I cover her obnoxious and ear-destroying voice with a cough. "Certainly, Klown-excuse me, Karina."

"Yesterday, a little blue bird told me that a certain someone…hadn't been training like he should have."

"Well I can assure you Karina, birds cannot speak, and if this a daily occurrence, then I would suggest consulting with a professio-"

"-Lucian, you're going to train, darling! I really want you to train, alright? I would not wish to see my adorable little tributes meet their doom! This is only my second year and I've already had to see my last ones go!"

Karina plays with Galla's cheeks like a baby and Galla near backs up into the wall with fear, eyes wide and hands going up in defense.

It takes a great deal of effort to hold in my laughter, but the district stylists at the table snort out most of their breakfast from their amusement.

A stylist with longer hair and an oddly normal and gruff appearance has his feet on the table, laughing with fury. He raises his hand, "Leave the poor children be, Karina. If it helps you kids any, I'd be willing to escort you both! Jus' lemme' get a chicken leg or two. You kids care for some chicken?"

Galla looks at the stylist and escort with disgust and has that look of familiar annoyance on her face. "Actually, I think I would much rather just walk down there on my own."

Karina calls after me again, "Lucian, don't forget! Train, train, train! Get some meat on your bones!"

I grab a shiny, red apple from the fruit bowl at the table. I ignore Karina's shrieks and smell a bouquet of flowers inside the vase.

"Mmm, they smell lovely. What kind are these?" I ask one of the stylists.

"Ah, those are lovely aren't they? They're a type of Sagittaria, an aqueous plant, mostly known as a katniss… they're quite frequent around the ponds of District 12."

"Such beautiful flowers, these katniss. Beautiful name too. I'll have to remember to take a few with me into the Arena…could be good luck."

As I head over to the elevator, I give clown-face a hint of feigned reassurance and even a little wink to go along with it.

"Not to worry, Karina. I'll be sure to work extra hard today."

I walk to the elevator right before the doors close, stopping them from shutting with my foot. Galla narrows her eyes from inside as I stop the elevator. The doors can only open with a button from the inside-my partner won't be able to escape me that easily.

"Please?"

Galla sighs and relents, pressing a button from within to open the doors.

I quickly get inside before she decides to change her mind again, and the elevator descends. I've been meaning to talk with Galla privately for quite some time, and right about now, I see no better opportunity than this.

_This is my only chance…_

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	26. Wicked Fruit

**As promised...Lucian Drake returns. Next update should be Saturday, barring complications.**

* * *

I turn my head to look at Galla, who is crossing her arms and fidgeting quite a bit, she also has a sour expression on her face as usual, as if she's so hardened to her environment that she can't take anything with amusement.

I bounce my apple in my palm and clear my throat, indicating that I'd like to initiate some sort of conversation with the cautious girl. I find that if I initiate this rather than just begin it, she wouldn't be as hesitant to respond. She's a shy girl, but she's got that fiery nature that can get her substantially far if she's as quick in her wit as she is her feet.

"Galla, I've been meaning to speak with you."

She darts her dark eyes towards mine as quickly as a cat's, and although I cannot visibly see it, her mind is an armed fortress, just ready to strike at the slightest of dangers.

_Yes, this girl has the potential to make it quite far._

"Did it have to be in here? No offense or anything, but this is…a rather uncomfortable space to hold a conversation in, don't you think?"

I give the smallest of smiles, but I will not relent. This is something that must be done.

"Yes, I understand that Galla. But this is something that cannot be helped; this is something that must be done privately."

Galla's eyes widen but her eyebrows never twitch; she obviously doesn't trust me. Who would? She's always on the defense, which has its positives and negatives.

"Not to worry, Galla. I'm not perverted, nor am I going to strangle you. I simply want to discuss some things."

Galla hesitates when she sees we're nearing the level of the Training Center, but I'm already one step ahead of her, I push another button on the elevator and we continue to elevate.

"No need to worry about that, we'll just keep elevating until this conversation is finished. I assure you, this won't take long. I promise you that," I say with a reassuring smile.

Galla crosses her arms and squints her eyes at me again, which I assume is my signal to begin this discussion.

"Galla, do you know why I chose an apple as opposed to the wide assortment of other exotic fruits?"

Galla gives me an incredulous look and runs her hand through her hair in annoyance, "Are we seriously talking about…fruit? Can't we just…we have to train-"

I cut her off with a wave of my hand, "Galla, I promise you this discussion will lead into more important topics, but this question must be answered first. Just take an educated guess," I bounce the apple in my palm some more.

Galla gives a small sigh and studies the bouncing fruit. "Um…I guess, you like apples? I don't know!"

"No, Galla, that was a perfectly reasonable answer. I can understand the assumption; I presume it's the first thing you thought of? However, I'm afraid the answer lies deeper than that, but I can give you the truth just this once," I said, now examining the fruit myself, my eyes getting lost in the shiny, scarlet texture.

"You see, the apple is a very ancient fruit, and were widely available in the Old World. My family had an obsession for ancient artifacts; I guess you could assume they were like a bunch of historians. Did you know that the apple was considered a "wicked fruit" back in those times? Apparently, someone had eaten this fruit in ancient times and thus the first great act of evil had been committed in the world."

Galla simply stared, not exactly annoyed, but seemingly confused. It appears she shows some interest, her eyes linger on the fruit in heavy contemplation. The only visible signs she shows of listening is the fact that she gives small nods every time I glance at her.

"This fruit, is considered the most evil of them all. Funny isn't it?" I say as I toss the apple high in the air again.

Galla doesn't respond, and she only eyes the apple even more.

"Depending if you truly understand the connection or not, this could lead into the much more important discussion of what we're going to do once we play the Games."

Galla swallows, almost as if she has a lump stuck in her throat. This is a topic she wasn't expecting, but if I don't tell her now, it could cost her entire life.

I stop bouncing the apple and breathe deeply before I speak, indicating the importance albeit heaviness of the fact I'm about to tell her.

"Galla, I need you to stay away from me once we hit the Arena."

Galla's surprise is evident in her eyes, and they scan me up and down at least ten times in less than five seconds. OK, this doesn't seem like anything she was expecting to hear.

Galla swallows again, but continues to stare at me, with a particularly dangerous look in her eyes now, "That's fine, it's not like I was going to get in an alliance anyway. I could do just fine on my own. But if you think you're going to kill me so easily-"

I cut her off again, "Galla, please. For once, regard this information without consulting in your emotions. I-"

"-My emotions have nothing to do with this."

"Please, do not take it personally, Galla. It didn't matter if you wanted to ally with me or not, or if I wanted to ally with you. This is something I just cannot do. I wouldn't have told you this if I did not show some care for you. You are my partner after all."

Galla considers this, and her guard backs down just a bit. She gives an inward sigh and tries to figure my reasoning. "OK, but is there a reason why?"

I just shake my head, hesitant and confused myself. I grab Galla by the shoulders, showing her the amount of importance that this possibly means. She looks at me oddly, but doesn't relent.

"Galla, you must promise me. Once the Games begin, run as far away from me as you can, don't even look at me. Just run, and of course, watch for anyone else too. But most importantly, just get away from me as soon as you can. And understand, I do not mean this as a threat; I mean this as a plea. Promise me."

Galla appears to be deep in thought now, I'm sure she understood my meaning; I had emphasized it quite clearly.

"Alright… I promise."

I let go of her shoulders and nod my head as the elevator descends back down to the Training Center level, while the rest of the trip is quiet. Galla does not seem guarded anymore, but she appears to be thinking very heavily about something.

_Good, that is what I had expected from her._

As the elevator doors open, I decide to tell her one last thing to puzzle over, "It's a shame I will never get the opportunity to see you emerge victorious with my own eyes," I mutter quietly.

I walk through the doors, allowing her to fully ponder my meaning.

* * *

I decide to take a different route to the Center than Galla does, simply because I want to arrive at a slower pace, and to diminish any possibility of her questioning me.

I examine the gold adorned walls. A soft white paint emanating the color of bone covers the entire canvas and ceiling. Silver etched diamonds are also embedded into the white paint, while the gold adornment exquisitely trails around the diamonds like a snake. The carpeting along this path is completely absent; it's a dark marble tile where each footstep echoes off the fancy walls. The path there isn't too long, but I've become so entranced in my surroundings that I fail to detect the presence of two others standing before me in the hallway, a few meters away from the Training Center entrance.

I almost collide with one of the men, and have to back up to avoid contact. I recognize one of the men as Canicus, the Career leader. The other man he is talking with appears to be the District One escort, Creon. His golden-enhanced hair is perfectly shaped with a small spike in the front, giving him a very fresh and normal appearance despite his Capitolite status. His metallic looking eyes already tell me that he's scowling at me.

Canicus's mouth closes abruptly in mid-sentence and he eyes me distractedly, his eyes flick back and forth between Creon and I and he inwardly sighs and leans against the wall while Creon continues to eye me with muted distaste. Both men emit a terrible air of silent frustration, and it is quite apparent that they were in the middle of an argument.

I slightly grin at Creon while I bounce the apple in my hands, "Sorry about that."

Canicus has an arrogant looking smile plastered on his face as he eyes the fruit in my hand. His dark hair falls into his eyes before he flicks it to the side, staring at me with bored and seemingly careless eyes, "Please, I didn't mind your interruption. Matter of fact, I was just about to _leave_," he mutters, staring daggers at Creon.

Canicus shrugs off the wall but Creon extends his bony hand and shoves him against the surface, quite roughly for such a slim man. Canicus swipes Creon's skeletal hand away faster than Creon can pull it away himself, but he doesn't appear fazed.

"Don't you dare walk through that door until I've finished with you, boy. I've dealt with your kind before, and don't think I'm not willing to smack that stupid little smirk right off you," Creon says, jabbing his finger in the air in front of Canicus.

At this point, they've already seemed to ignore my presence and I could have already swept past them and into the Center. I even thought I saw Galla walk through the doors from the opposite hallway, but honestly, this is way too amusing to pass up. Last year, Creon was rumored to have a very difficult relationship with his tributes. I'm not going to miss a chance to watch a fistfight. I'm leaning on one shoulder, twirling the apple by its stem, staring fixatedly at the crimson fruit, occasionally stealing glances at the amusing interaction between Creon and his tribute.

Creon flashes Canicus a wicked looking smile, and it quickly transforms into a scowl that equally matches Canicus's. "See what I mean? Too stubborn, ever so temperamental. The last jackass I had to deal with was the same exact way; sarcastic, moody, and rebellious, and look where it took him-straight to his own demise!"

Canicus leans against the wall again, and groans as Creon lectures him some more. Creon is already snapping his fingers at Canicus to get his attention, while he is now staring inside the glass doors of the Training Center. Canicus nods his head in greeting at someone inside, presumably one of the Careers.

Canicus rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

It looks as if the argument could go on for days, but a loud and commanding feminine voice echoes down the hall. I look behind me towards the new guest and see another one of the Careers, Admire Blanchard, strutting down the corridor as if she owned the entire place.

_This must be his partner, may the gods help us all._

"There you are Creon! Creon, I thought you said you would escort me to the Center! And here I find you socializing with these…_charming _boys," she declared in a flirtatious yet arrogant edged voice.

Creon is now rubbing his temples with his hand, appearing as if plagued by a migraine. Canicus chuckles at Creon and salutes us as he heads through the Center doors.

Admire's eyes linger on mine for a tad second longer than I had cared for as she made her way over to Creon, who was now the poster-boy of frustration.

Admire holds her arm out for Creon's to take, "Shall we?"

Creon begrudgingly relents and sighs as he takes her arm and they walk into the Center.

_How…interesting._

I had basically just met the entirety of District One, and if I hadn't had defiled my commandment I probably would have left earlier, but if I broke it, I might as well relish in the freedom and sin while I can.

I'm alone in the hallway again, and I only see a few tributes go through the doors, except from the opposite hallway. My solitude only lasts a few moments before I hear the sound of light footsteps coming down the corridor.

A girl with shoulder length dark hair, who I recognize as Anya Powers, strolls cat-like through the hallway, regarding me with a careful expression.

Anya slows down to a halt when she sees that I'm still leaning on the wall and hesitates before turning her head and calling out to me.

"You going in or what?"

I think carefully before I answer, solely because I'm not quite sure what to say at the moment. "I suppose. I'm not exactly sure why I'm even out here to begin with."

Anya half-nods and beckons me over to walk with her inside, "Come on then, the paint is already dry."

I follow her through the glass doors into the Center, noticing the smell of liquor hovering around her.

_If I had to despise any scent, alcohol would be the worst._

We walk through the large expanse of the dim-lit Center, noting the large assortment of different stations.

"Don't tell me you're gonna sit there tying knots the whole time like you did yesterday. If you are, I wouldn't mind joining you. Just saying."

I toss the apple in my hand again as we walk through the Center, following the fruit with a focused gaze, "Hm, I'm afraid not. I suppose I will just wander today, might even use a blade or two."

Anya regards me with slight disappointment, "Eh, well in that case. Drake, is it? Been a pleasure, Mr. Drake. But the day's too short to do any training. I'll be stalking the Careers if ya need me."

And so begins my little adventure through the Center, featuring approximately 30 minutes of eavesdropping on my competition. 30 minutes of trying to fit together and run through every piece of my plan, and 30 minutes to gain more insight on the weaknesses of the people around me.

_And there isn't enough time._

It will be impossible to fit everything that is needed to be done in 30 minutes, and I have to prioritize. I won't be talking with anyone, but I will be wandering today. And wandering, appearing like a wisp is something that I have perfected while sneaking around the streets of District 12.

Today is the shortest of the Training Days, and if you got here early, then hats off to you. You have about 45 minutes to fit every last objective of yours into that time period. It is a horrible period of time for the Careers, because they train the most. While it would have been amusing to take up all of their time by interacting with them, that's something I could not see myself doing unless I was willing enough to attempt it. Which I am not.

Unfortunately, I have priorities of my own. My chaos and destruction does not begin here, and I'm not bored enough to do anything drastic. I took a pill not 20 minutes ago, and the effect will last a good 2-3 days more. Fortunately for everyone else, at the moment,_ I'm comfortably numbed._

In the midst of quietly traveling from station to station, I came to overhear that the Private Training Sessions were going to take place later today. Usually, the Private Sessions occur tomorrow, but apparently the Quell is experimenting with some new implemented features of the Games.

My apple is still uneaten, but just as red and ripe. I have made a habit of bouncing it up and down in my palm. It helps me think, and I have odd habits to begin with. Still, I have little to no clue how I'm going to spend the next 25 minutes…

"Well, well, well! Would ya look here? 'Ello there friend!" says a voice I can easily recognize.

I can't help but smirk as I hear it, and I almost forgot the interaction that occurred between us yesterday. I didn't think this guy had it in him to stick around me, but I'm glad he did-but I'm also glad I did. You see, in my desperate attempt to get to know some other Tributes, I had stumbled upon the boy's bathroom…of all places. I wish I could say I didn't meet a single person in a bathroom, but in all honesty I made a good amount of talk with some people. Of course, I had to change my attitude every now and then, you know, experiment a little…

I turn around, bouncing the apple in my hand continuously, and stare at someone that two days ago I never would have allowed myself to come into contact with.

"Well, mate, you sure know how to make an impression," says Con Rossencourte, the sly and mischievous District Four tribute for this year.

I chuckle, taking on one of my more charismatic qualities when talking with a guy like this. When it comes to conversing, I'm unpredictable.

"I could say the same thing about you, Con," I grin at the gold coin that is being flipped in his hands, the damn thing catching my eye again.

At first, I didn't trust this guy. He seemed…rather dishonest when I had first met him, but when I considered the possibilities…this was the best thing that could have had ever happened. I could definitely use someone like him for my plans, someone with information, someone with connections, and someone with class. This guy fits the description.

"Ah guess I just have that certain, eh…style!" Con exclaims with an intriguing accent, as he runs his hand through his red hair and delicately covers his right eye with the scarlet mane.

We're currently at a station where there aren't any other tributes at the moment, and it's a fine opportunity to get in a conversation with someone that could help a guy like me out.

I lean against the station stand while a Capitolite trainer stares at us dully, trying to find something interesting to look at while attempting to teach Anya how to spar. Why Anya is sparring in the first place is beyond me, but a slight whiff of alcohol is present in the air. That about gives me all the confirmation I need. Anya keeps dropping her sword, and the trainer is basically just standing there with his arms crossed, not even bothering to grab a sword of his own.

"Ah think you ought to hold on to the sword when ya swing it, doll!" scoffs Con.

Anya responds by promptly giving Con the middle finger; such a charming girl.

I look back at Con, who seems to find some amusement in the "sparring" session next door to us. "Con, what could you possibly mean by style?" I joke.

"What ah mean to say, mate, is you aren't gonna get the lovelies if you don't got the _style_ to back it up", he smoothes his jacket down and flips it open dramatically as he winks to a female tribute walking near us, "Am ah rahght, or am_ah rahght_?"

The girl walking by looks at him with disgust, flipping her hair and trying to appear dignified as she walks away quickly and tries to avoid his sneaky grasp. I don't like to leave a guy hanging, especially if he could prove of use to you later.

I stare coolly at the girl walking away from Con and decide to do just that, "Hey! You, girl walking away! Let me talk to you for a second, I could use some help over here," I holler while bouncing my apple.

Con stares at me incredulously, but I wave my hand to dismiss his concern. "Sometimes Con, that doesn't always work. Perhaps you just need to be more assertive, like this," I sneer and grab the girl by the arm as she walks towards me, still trying to avoid Con.

"What the hell? Get your hands off me!" the girl shouts at me, struggling to leave my grasp.

_She puts on a hell of a fight, that's for sure. She doesn't look like a Career, but she sure acts like one. Con doesn't know this girl either, which is why he's nearly falling on the floor laughing at the struggle._

I throw the apple at Con and he catches it easily, still snickering at the girl in my grasp.

"Not… to worry Con. I've done this…many…times." I huff, trying to control my breathing while I twist the girl's arm around and slam her into the wall I was leaning on.

The girl is still struggling, but she can't do much now because if she moves her arm, it would be her own undoing.

"What the hell do you want? Let me go, asshole! I'll tear you apart, and what the hell are you laughing at, freak?" the girl shouts angrily.

Con pats me on the back, "Potential, mate! You've got potential."

"Alright, Con. She's all yours. Now, about that style…" I say with sarcasm, grinning as Con throws my apple back and he takes hold of the still struggling girl's arm.

"Hey there, doll. The name's Con. Con Rossencourte, and ahm here to satisfy your needs and fulfill your wildest dreams," he slyly says to her as he struggles to grasp hold of her arm.

"Leave her alone!" a male voice shouts from behind us. I roll my eyes and stare at the hero of the day.

Con grins at our newest visitor, "Nothing to see here, mate! We have this all under control; ah think business would best suit you elsewhere!"

"I don't think so. I want you to let her go, and if you don't, then I'll have no problem slitting your throats in your sleep, and my partner wouldn't mind either," says the average looking boy, walking up to us with a tensed expression, ready to defend his apparent District partner at any moment.

I lean on a column near the stand, and twirl the apple by its stem, staring at the dull-looking boy and the hilarious scene before me.

_This boy must be half-crazed. Whether he knows it or not, he's confronting a Career, and especially a Career like Con, whereas he's got connections with the Leader, this won't end pretty if Canicus sees this nonsense._

"Forget about it, kid. This heroic scheme will only end in your suffering," I hiss at the boy from behind him, and he twirls around faster than lightning, attempting to scowl at me.

_This is just another act by someone who obviously doesn't have what it takes._

Con cracks up again and the girl he was holding against the wall runs from his grip and to her knight in…rusty armor. "Hah! You bastards don't know who you're messing with, and just wait until the Arena! Just wai-"

The girl is cut off by the dramatic entrance of the Careers, which consists of Canicus, Jet, and Sade who have come to investigate the scene.

"What's this all about? Con, you associating with afterthoughts again?" says Canicus arrogantly, towering over both District 9 tributes.

While Con explains the mess, Jet glares at me with icy-blue eyes that could freeze anybody's bones solid. Jet has been staring at me ever since I got in here, and it's safe to assume that he doesn't like me. Earlier at the Edible Plants station, he did the same thing while he was training with Sade. He's pretty good at the Botany thing, scored a high 20 while Sade scored a measly 5. Nevertheless, his stare does nothing to me; it doesn't faze me in the least bit. That's mainly due to the fact that I don't care, but also because I have an equally intimidating stare. There's no clear winner, because we're basically equally intimidating, but he looks away first.

Canicus regards the two tributes before him with a stern expression, and rubs his chin as Con retells the scuffle. Canicus scowls and grips Con's shoulder hard, yanking him away like a doll. "I'll deal with you later," his voice holds a hard edge to it.

_The power he holds over the children…it's…quite intriguing. He's got their wills at his fingertips!_

Canicus finally shoos Sade and Jet away and beckons Con to leave, "Let's go Con, we've got to discuss some things before we're out of time. We've only got about 18 minutes to spare. "

Con shakes my hand in farewell, "Well, looks like my time here is done. Ah would look forward to seeing more of ya. The Boss doesn't like to play around though, and ah've got no choice. Farewell until the Games, mate!"

I firmly shake his hand, "Viddy well, friend."

Con walks off with the group, flipping his coin and insulting various tributes with his blunt remarks.

_Well, that's that then, and what a show it was!_

Soon thereafter, a muffled boom echoes around the entire building, and several tributes look up. Another boom. And another. Another. It sounds like it's coming from outside, and a few beats later a muffled roar descends on the building and ceiling. More muffled booms follow.

_Rain, and lots of it. So foul and fair a day I have not seen._

I can't help but notice a peculiar and solitary girl sitting cross-legged on the ground near a station, looking up at the ceiling with the most obvious pain I've ever seen. This girl must hate rain.

My glance is interrupted when I feel a weight on my shoulder, and see Armani at my side, out of breath and coated with sweat.

"Let me tell you, I don't blame my sister for stirring up trouble while she was here. Excuse my language, but this place is boring as shit."

Sean takes his arm off my shoulder and wipes his sweat-drenched face with his shirt, while I bounce the apple in my hand.

Sean is a likeable guy, and despite his notoriety around District 10 and the Capitol's distaste for him, he's a good back-up to have. Just like Con, I had come about Sean in the bathroom…of all places. He seemed to be giving himself a pep-talk in the mirror, washing his face and trying to calm down his nerves; I put on my happy-mask and went to work on obtaining some sort of friendship. Obviously, he stuck around. It's obvious the Capitol sent him here, and only his sister can be blamed for that.

"Treadmill?" I inquire.

"Worse, elevator was full. Some Peacekeepers were trying to detain some red-head."

_Alexis…_

Sean kneels, elbow on one leg, contemplating the field around him. "My sister didn't feel like taking care of it today."

"Your sister still here?"

Sean looks at me with confusion, "Of course, she's my mentor isn't she? Why do you ask?"

I twirl the apple in my hands, glaring into the scarlet reflection, glaring into a crimson world, "I would like to speak with her if she gets a chance, ask her about the Arena, what it was like to…kill."

Sean lightly chuckles, "Well, you'll see soon enough. The Games are but a few days away. She refuses to admit it, you know. I can see it in her eyes…she knows it's not over…It's sickening really."

"Are you afraid, Sean?"

Sean stares at me, with a look I can't fathom, "I wish I wasn't."

Sean's words echo through my mind, and the storm just makes it all the more impacting. I still can't believe it myself. My dreams will come true but a few days away and everything is coming together as planned. I've come this far…and yet, sometimes I wonder why I even came here myself.

"Neither of us knows what we're doing here, nor do we know what's in store for us."

Sean gives a solemn nod and looks back at me curiously, "Why are you here, Lucian? Piss your parents off or something?"

_Why am I here?_

I can't take my eyes off the apple, so I just stare deeper at the red. I can't even bear to look him in the eye, because honestly, I'd be lying if I said I completely knew. "I can't tell you that, Sean. I don't even completely know myself. I guess I'm just…a little too fond of death is all."

Sean snorts, "I guess you could say we're all just a bunch of suicidal teenagers. That…or borderline psychotic. Except the one who makes it out...And I guess they don't really win anyway."

I decide to lighten the mood with some of my signature dark humor, because right now, Sean looks miserable, and I don't have to be an expert at reading emotions to see that.

"Look on the bright side, if you care to hear about your demise, you can hear it free from Maeve over there. Then you won't have to improvise your last words!"

Sean cracks a wide smile, and he gets up and stretches before leaving.

I'm left there to think. I linger around the knot tying station, reflecting on previous days, trying to decide which one had been the most useful for me. I simply just stand and toss my apple back and forth, conflicted with a whole variety of things.

I gesture to a Capitolite who is wandering around checking each station for any spear accidents like the first day, probably the same one who had to spar with a wasted Anya.

"Hey, you know how much time is left?"

The Capitol trainer looks at his watch with the same sullen expression I've seen him constantly carry, "I'd say about uh, 13 minutes".

I nod my head in thanks and the dull man continues on.

_Perhaps I can ponder, if only a little._

I begin to twirl the apple by its stem and lean on the knot-tying stand, thinking of earlier days.

Perhaps it may seem odd to others that I have done little to nothing in the first two days of Training, and this cannot be explained in simple words. Honestly, the first day was my most productive. That was the day where first impressions were made and my plans began. It was difficult in the respect that I had to talk to everyone except the Careers, but only while they were alone.

The Second day was entirely different, and it consisted of excessive pondering and complex knot-tying. Every single plan which was conjured up began a new knot on the rope, and possible advantages and appealing goals would make the knot tied tighter. However, if there was a flaw in the logic of the plan, it was on to a completely new knot. The most complex knots were fail-proof plans, and there were only but a few of those. It was a tedious process, and it may have looked wasteful, but there was a strict reason for what I was doing. I have a reason for everything I do; I don't just do things because I have nothing else to do.

It's just like when I speak; if there's nothing of importance to be said then there's little point in saying anything at all.

I never like to go halfway with my actions, everything is taken with utmost focus and intensity, and if not, then it was a considerable waste of my time. If I have a plan, and I see an opportunity, I will not hesitate to take action. I'm naturally rather impulsive, and I've been trying to work on discontinuing the "shoot first, talk later" strategies, simply because I don't have the height or muscle to back strategies like that up.

Besides the knot-tying, I also observed the weaknesses of some tributes. I pin-pointed a few of the harder ones on the first day, and on the second day I observed from a distance. There were some painfully obvious ones too, which I spotted within the first few minutes. For example, it wasn't difficult figuring out Londyn from District 6 was blind, and today I even figured out that Anya was a drunk, which does not surprise me.

I decide to observe Canicus, because he's been giving me trouble as of late with his weakness. I can't figure it out. He's currently talking with Jet, both of them seemingly heavily discussing something of great importance. So much for "working his ass off".

I've concluded that Canicus has an attitude problem, which isn't uncommon when you're a Career. He's a bit arrogant, and it seems like he has some superiority issues. He makes little time for others, and he has a bit of a temper streak as well. On the First Training day he destroyed a Capitolite trainer in a sparring session. Whatever problems that may plague Canicus would have to be internal. Although, Canicus does make it an effort to stretch before his sessions.

I continue to stare at the fruit that I've been toying with for so long; the perfect scarlet color, one of my favorites.

_How could such a fruit be so sinister?_

My thoughts were interrupted by evil itself…or something bloody near close to it.

"Excuse me, could you be so kind as to show me how to work this station?"

_Admire Blanchard…this girl had her eye on me earlier for a reason. Shit._

I don't know what to say or how to say it, because I am surprised. I am surprised and confused, but mostly surprised.

I hate surprises.

Admire stands uncomfortably close to me, with that crooked and arrogant looking smile on her deceiving face, "Hm? Come on now, man up and show a girl how to tie a knot," Admire taps my cheek playfully and winks.

I simply stare at her with a blank expression and hope I wouldn't lose control, because I didn't want to make a scene. I was significantly annoyed, so very much annoyed.

I have to focus on my apple or else I'll try to strangle her right here and now, "Is there something you require…of actual importance?" I continue to twirl my apple, staring at the maroon shape as it twirls in the air like a marionette.

Admire grabs a piece of rope from the station and beckons me over, which I ignore. "Don't you want to help me? Don't tell me you're afraid of pretty girls. I mean, that's like the worst way to win me over, you know?"

Admire stands there, arms crossed with the dangling rope in her right. She stares at me with harmless inquisition, but I notice a bit of anger looming in her eyes.

Every damn Career was looking at the exchange between us, including Canicus who was obviously displeased to see me messing with the Careers again. Jet stared at me in particular, with silent animosity, whispering to himself or something. Con had his hand in his face, laughing like hell.

Admire swallowed and tightened her jaw, but continued dangling the rope in my face. In a desperate attempt to get through to me, she grabbed my arm and whispered dangerously low to me, "Surely, I know you must find me attractive, at least somewhat. I will tell you now that I have _never_ been nor will I _ever_ be scorned. I'm telling you, this is the only chance…"

Admire is still trying to talk to me, and she fails to notice the attention we were receiving. This is a rare point in time where I have to access forbidden territory, and for just a few seconds, I wouldn't be numbed.

The whole world stops and everything else fades into blackness while I glare at Admire with outright coldness as she mutedly speaks to me. My words drown out her stupid drawl in the void I am currently in.

"Do you realize how much I hate you? How much I want to slit your throat this very moment, tie you up the next? You see, I would very much like to kill you Admire, but I can't. See, now this is the problem. I cannot do this right now. No, I just can't. Too many damn Capitolites, too many people, I can't quell those desires right now. However, I would like to give you my business card. Talk to me a few days from now, and we'll get things started…"

When everything fades to normal, and I still clearly hear the rain pouring down on the building, I know I'm back to being numbed. Admire impatiently awaits some sort of answer from me, "Well?"

I take my eyes away from the apple and stare at her in confusion. "Sorry? I didn't hear the question, could you repeat that?" I said, allowing myself the smallest of smiles.

Admire stares at me with now visible annoyance; hand on hip and all, "You were saying something, weren't you? What were you saying?"

I stare at her blankly, "I have no idea what you are talking about, Admire. Perhaps you need some rest?"

Admire drops the rope and storms off, muttering something about "typical District 12 morons".

I chuckle to myself as she angrily stomps away and curses at her failed advances.

_The Careers must love harassing me._

Even from that little interaction with Admire, I could tell she was very manipulative. Just the way she flaunted her "beauty" at me; that would have surely attracted any lesser-minded individual.

_The thing is, I'm no lesser-minded individual._

My mental capacities are definitely beyond most of these tributes. I hate to flatter myself, but my intelligence has always been miraculous, even from a young age. My older sister told me I started speaking full sentences even before the age of 1. I began walking not long afterward, and began reading books at age 5. Cyrus often told me I was one of those miracle children, the ones with the higher intelligence than the majority. Apparently, a lot of them hail from District 3.

Mental domination is my forte, and Admire could not break me. Just another ignorant girl in an ignorant world. Although I could not exactly pinpoint a physical or obvious weakness, it does not bother me. She'll self destruct soon enough; she's too headstrong, and too arrogant and domineering. Although I hate to make the Careers a statistic, about 85% of them are the same way: Arrogant, Domineering, and Hot-headed.

This is why the Careers are such a happy family, because they're usually the same. But this in turn can also cause problems, and already, judging by the way Canicus and Admire look at each other, things don't look too bright in their future. The same might not be said for Con and Admire, however. They share very peculiar glances toward one another, almost as if they're playing some sort of game with each other. Admire had eyed me in a similar fashion in the hallway earlier.

_Whatever tricks that girl is trying to pull, none of them have been successful. Whatever games she's playing with Rossencourte pertains little to me. The more she involves me, the bigger threat she is going to become._

I decide to move on to another station where I can better observe Jet Matthews. At the moment, he's got his glare of doom set on Brennadon from District 3. Bren's trying to dual wield some swords, which by the way isn't working too well for him. Bren's been hiding something, as he hasn't really used a variety of weapons beside a sword or spear. I've seen him use a spear yesterday, but he used it differently from everyone else in the beginning. He spun it in his hands, faster than a wind-mill, accompanied with a loud whistle which is what caught my attention. He demolished the dummy he was working on, but he quickly changed to standard spear-tactic quickly afterwards, and failed miserably. Tough kid, although he's got a bit of a temper on him.

Anyway, Jet seems to find him of the liking, either that or he just hates him too. I can't really tell, because he's whispering to himself again.

See now that's the thing about Jet. I know that something about Jet is…for lack of a better term, "off". However, he's also one of the only people in here that I have a hard time placing any emotions on. He doesn't display the normal variety that I've seen other people display; contempt, anger, happiness…absolutely nothing. He's virtually expressionless.

It's the eyes of Jet that really get people flying out of their shoes. They're icy spears, and they slash right through you, but if you can dodge them, upon closer inspection they're as empty as his facial expressions. It doesn't faze me though, because honestly, my eyes have been known to be just as intimidating. My sisters often called them, "stormy" or "nimbus". And when "Stormy Nimbus" meets "Icy Spears", well it's a clash of the titans; Zeus and Poseidon. You just can't do it.

And this is potentially the problem I have with Jet; he's like a mirrored personality of myself. This worries me, because the way I described Jet is in accordance with how people have described me. Though, from my observations, Jet appears to be much more irritated and anxious. He tends to scowl at the slightest interruptions, as if his thoughts have been scattered all over the floor and he's been forced to pick them up again.

_Familiar, yet so different._

I'm beginning to wonder…Could Jet have my sickness?

_Impossible._

Simply impossible. No, he couldn't. It just wouldn't make any sense. Nevertheless, Jet is someone I would do well to stay from. If he's anything like me, he's dangerous. And he's got the advantage of the Careers to back him up. There's something he's trying to hide about himself, and he's doing a damn good job of it as well. I may have to exploit his secret, attempt to force it out of him…

_But how?_

The other Careers are of little importance, except Con. Con and I share a strange bond, and it's something I can't really explain. I knew from the get-go I had to be assertive when I talked to him, because Con can be dishonest, and he can be tricky, but he plays his cards right, and he's hard not to like…except if you're of the opposite gender, whereas he's considered a literal pest. I can definitely use Con, but exactly how, I will have to think about.

I sigh and decide to cease my pondering once and for all; I twist the long stem off the apple and pop it in my mouth, chewing it like a toothpick. I stare at the surrounding field, surveying all and everyone. I set my gaze upon the sinful fruit and I bid it farewell as I throw it in the air for one last catch, "There are those whose teeth are swords, whose fangs are knives, to devour the poor from off the earth, the needy from among mankind," I whispered and threw the apple high into the air.

Faster than I could viddy, a speeding dagger struck the crimson fruit in mid-air, sending it forth to the granite wall behind me.

_Amazing…_

I look behind to see the skilled marksman capable of such a feat, my eyes set upon wild looking girl with red hair as fiery as the sun. I looked upon the apple on the wall, knife sticking through the center of the core and the poison of the fruit dripping down along the wall. I chewed on the stem toothpick thoughtfully as I admired the work of art.

_This girl's projectile skills surpass even that of Londyn's! I cannot pass such an opportunity up._

The wild red-haired girl who struck the fruit stood beside me and admired the fruit as well. "Your marksmanship skills are astounding I must say," I mutter and turn to the girl, shaking her hand firmly. "Name?"

"Atalanta, and I only ask that you remember it, and remember it well," she says simply.

I turn back to the apple on the wall, "Oh?"

"I was watching that apple the whole time. Let me tell you, you're not the only fan of apples around here."

I watched curiously as she reached up on her tiptoes and grabbed the dagger with the apple stuck on the blade and pulled it off. She slices the fruit in two and offers me the other slice, "Care for a half?"

I take the half and stare at it as she chews on her slice, "I look forward to meeting you in the Games, Atalanta."

"Ditto," she says nonchalantly as she licks her fingers clean.

"Hm, Atalanta? I have a proposal to make, and it's one that's as simple as it is serious. I advise you to stay away from me during the Games, and I do the same. However, if it appears the Enemy has proved as valiant as they had been in the commencing, then seek me out. Seek me out at once, and we will hunt. If there are others, we can take them under our wing. Once the enemy has fallen, then the fair fight will prelude. Deal?"

Atalanta twirls the blade in her hands as she contemplates my proposal, "Tell you what Lucian, although I didn't understand half of what you just said, I'll keep the offer in mind. I can't say I trust you, but I wouldn't want to have a knife in my back either."

_Yes? No? Maybe so? Atalanta is deadly, make no mistake about that. I cannot fathom how I could have missed her yesterday. Perhaps Atalanta has a death wish in store for the Enemy? Whatever the case, my plans have begun to soar if she agrees._

I wonder if anyone has a bounty on the Enemy thus far. I'm sure everyone fears them, but I'm wondering if anyone's got any grudges…

A bell echoes through the Center, signaling the end of Training. I walk through the glass doors of the Center and all the Tributes head off to the lunchroom, while I keep the half of the apple within my hands. Well, I have my lunch. I knew sin could come in handy…

_Such a productive day for one so short. Now my plans have come into action, and a new darkness will settle upon the Games. It is only but days now before the reckoning, and when the time comes I shall be ready. Now all there is to do is wait. It is all up to fate now. And fate will do good to me; it brought me here didn't it? Fate has given me a chance. But there are times when fate can be cruel-_

_-for the great beast shall rise out the sea…And what would an ocean be without a beast lurking in the darkness?_


	27. How To Piss of a Career

_**Sorry this is late again, I'm going through hell. Wound up in the ER twice again (my stats were dropping from severe coughing fits). Apologies for this being late. Without further ado. Next chapter Should be Friday or Sat, barring more complications.**_

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_**A/N For the record Sade is 5"2'**_

_**Pipper Young of District 10**_

_**Lunch Before Training Scores by Thornyroseistrue**_

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_**Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor. ****  
****-Sholom Aleichum**_

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****  
I don't understand the Capitol. From there looks, to the way they speak. It's all so different.

From the moment I boarded the train I was thrust into a world of luxury. A world with so little worries. Chocolate, the finest paintings, even in the bathroom, and the most comfortable clothes.

To be able to give people going to die such luxuries, I could not imagine what the Capitol would be like.

When the train came to the Capitol, all I could do is stare at the beauty of the city. The beauty was like a magnet; no matter how many times I would look away, I would find myself staring again.

Even now, with the private training looming over me I still find myself staring at the building. The ceiling is high; maybe to make the tributes feel smaller than they already feel. The room is a dark blue color and the room holds about 20 stations. Each is neatly separated by about 5 feet, minus the throwing stations that have 20 feet separating them.

Another thing that I don't get about the Capitol; how they have to have everything in perfect order. Everything has to be right to the minute. No more, no less. In District Ten, we are very laid back; why do what you can today when you can do it tomorrow? If we didn't have to take care of the livestock, we never would do any work.

I shake my head; I can't start thinking about home. Or what used to be home. You are supposed to have shelter at home. Not be voted to die. How can my district be my home?

I can never trust my "home" now. I can't even trust my parents who were so loving towards me.

The differences allowed me to forget my "home" and let me forget for a short while.

One thing makes me remember though. Armani. Whenever I look at him, he brings back all the things I try to forget. I barely know the guy, but I still hate him for making me remember.

Not that I should get close to Armani. He is just as dangerous as his sister was. I could never trust him, because of his sister.

I shake my head, and then stop suddenly remembering the talk I had with Heath after the first training day.

* * *

My mentor Heath and I are sitting across from each other. I am sitting on a stool shaped like a dog's paw print, while Heath is sitting on the leopard print couch.

The room is decorated like what I would imagine a jungle to look like. The person who painted the room knew exactly what they were doing. When I first walked into the room, I walked into the wall because I thought the wall was a part of the room.

The room is the living room of sorts. Armani and his sister (who I don't like because she keeps calling me Pipsqueak) are in his room working on strategy. Aleah "suggested" that the two of us be trained separately, to the point of Armani and his sister being in another room. His bedroom.

She also "suggested" Esserenda be guard and make sure both parties stayed in there rooms while we had our sessions. Esserenda is standing right outside the only way to get in to Armani's bedroom and the only way to get out. This way Armani or his sister can't hear what we say if we speak quiet enough. But more important to the reason, I can't hear what they say.

I wonder if I would try to listen to Armani and Aleah's strategy meetings. Would I stoop so low that I would listen in to there private meetings? My optimism says, "No of course not! That is wrong!" But I know better. If I had the chance, I would listen to every word and write it down. I would remember every word.

I would blame Armani. Why was he so stupid to allow me a chance to listen? He was surely just as evil as his sister was, he had to be taken out early or he would be a problem.

Only one would win anyway.

I would know it was wrong, and his ghost would follow me. Just like Lillian still does. After I killed him using the information I gathered. But I would push it back, making it his or someone else's fault. As I do with Lillian.

Becca was the one watching the kids.

She fell asleep!

The bitch lied.

I shake my head, and Heath stares at me. "You have a bad habit of shaking your head when you think too much. You need to stop that."

"No, I don't," I say too loudly. The Capitol buildings are well made, but if you speak too loudly, some of what you say may be picked up by my partner, so the two of us speak in whispers.

Heath leans toward me, and looks into my eyes. I try to look away; I do not like the way he is looking at me, like he is accusing me. But he keeps his gaze so long I have to look at him. "It shows weakness, if you continue, people are going to realize your trick and know that you are out of it when you are thinking too much."

"I am not out of it when I think!" I stand up looking away from Heath. He stands also and walks until he is in front of me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, I guess to comfort me, but I am too mad to see that. "Don't touch me!"

He takes his hand off my shoulder and backs up just slightly. His face is completely calm though. He wasn't even fazed by my outburst. "Pipper, you need to understand. If you keep spacing out, you're going to die. Someone will notice that you're just staring into nothing, and by the time you get out of your trance, you will not stand a chance."

"I already don't stand a chance Heath! Have you seen the Careers? Hell, have seen the guy from Eight? He fought with Peacekeepers! Oh and I'm with Sean fucking Armani! Let's not forget him."

"Feel better?"

I stare, dumbfounded. "What?"

"You've been bottling all of your emotions. Leaving all the pain and hate in your head. Pipper, you need a clear head when you go into the arena." Heath puts his hand on my shoulder again and I don't mind. "If that means you need to yell at me, then yell at me."

* * *

But I can't vent my anger at him; no matter what. Heath tells me it's because I've been bottling my emotions for so long that I don't know how to let them out.

I shake my head and try to find something to take my mind off everything. I hear a few words from other tributes. Something about "3" and "Canicus."

Spinning my stool like chair around to face the rest of the tributes (my back was to everyone else). Looking now I see the boy from Three being dragged off by peacekeepers, and the boy from One (who I assume is Canicus) standing there laughing.

Canicus is the leader of the Careers and not someone I would want to mess with. Not that anybody here would be somebody I would want to fight, but if I had to choose I would not fight Canicus. One, he is the leader of the Careers; you aren't the leader unless you are something to worry about. Two, he has been training for these games his whole life; I wouldn't last a second with him in the arena. Three, he is confident, and you have to have skill to be confident.

I have no skill, so I stay quiet, and don't talk about what I am doing for the Gamemakers. The only things I am remotely good at are fistfights or making things. I am tougher than the girls after fighting with the bullies back in the district. But the guys? No, I wouldn't stand a chance in a fistfight with many of the guys.

My ability to make things is limited. I guess the Capitol never thought of making weapons as something a tribute would want to learn because there is no station for it. The closest thing was a shelter building station.

I am so screwed.

Resisting the urge to shake my head, I look around, my eyes resting on the food cart next to the career table. The cart has many sweets, many that I don't know the name of, but I am only focused on the brown squares.

Chocolate.

When I first had chocolate, my mind was blown. How could anything taste so wonderful? If I won the Hunger Games, the first thing I would do is buy as much chocolate as I could eat.

I look at the five other carts; none of the carts have any chocolate. This means I have to walk to the cart by the Careers. Walking to the cart is no big deal; it's going near the Careers that scares me. My hands are all sweaty and my heart feels like it will pop out of my chest.

I shouldn't be scared of the Careers right now. They can't kill me now, but one of them will most likely be my killer. That thought terrifies me.

Usually the Career Pack has people from underlying districts, but not this year. Which seems odd to me. The competition is much tougher this year; many people from underlying districts have trained. Some are just built tough. Others are just nuts. Why not have others to help make your alliance tougher?

I turn back to the chocolate. The chocolate is now calling to me. _Come to me, Pipper. You know you want me_. I can't disagree. I do want the chocolate. Do I want the chocolate more then I fear the Careers?

Hell yeah.

Shakily I get up, keeping my head down and hoping the Careers don't notice me. I walk towards the cart. The walk seems to take forever, but I don't mind. The closer I get the more scared I get. I stop a few times, wanting to turn back, but a look at the chocolate makes me continue.

Then I get to the cart, by now I have to force myself to breathe properly; my legs are like the Jell-O on the cart with the chocolate, and I can barely think. Sadly, where I'm standing doesn't help; the girl from Two named Sade is sitting a couple feet from where I stand. The group doesn't seem to be paying much attention to me. Good.

I pick up my first piece, and swallowing more than my fear, eat it. The sweetness fills me. Before I came to the Capitol, I have never had anything like this. My family hardly ever has anything besides milk, cheese, and beets with occasional squirrel meat if we had a good day on the market. We always had enough, never having to worry about food. Even if it was the same thing every day.

Which is why I may have went a little fast at eating the pieces of chocolate. The pieces melt when I pick them up, causing a mess all over my hands. Soon I felt sick, like I usually do after I eat chocolate. I wanted to continue, the candy would give me something to do, and keep my mind off all my thoughts. But a snicker stops me.

I turn to Sade who made the snicker; she laughs more as I turn to her. "Nice face."

I absentmindedly place my hand on my face, which ends up smearing more chocolate on my face.

Sade starts to laugh more. I rub my hands on my pants to get the chocolate off my hands, leaving a giant stain on my pants, and I still have a bit of chocolate on my hands. The girl from Four wrinkles her noise and says in disgust, "Use a napkin next time."

"You're from Ten," Sade says matter-of-factly. "Your name starts with a P." She takes a dramatic long pause then finally comes up with, "Your name's Piggy, right?"

How dare she! Her whole life she has never had to worry about food, while my whole life I prayed that my family kept our good fortune. She probably has had three square meals a day, with as much food as she could ever eat. And I am the pig?

"Yeah, w-well at least I'm not a…" My mind stumbles too find a good retort in my fury. Finally, it comes to me: "Midget Career!" I regret it as soon as I said it. It sounded so stupid.

She rolls her eyes. "Nice comeback Piggy. Not." Sade gets up to leave for her private session, but I can't leave her alone in my fury.

Before I really register what I'm doing, I grab a handful of chocolates, which start melting as soon as I grab them, and throw them at Sade.

The half-melted chocolate hits the back of Sade's hair, leaving a brown patch on the back of her head. Her hand touches the back of her hair.  
Sade slowly turns around and glares at me. My heart starts pounding when I remember that the Careers are most likely going to kill me.

And I just threw chocolate into her hair.

Slowly she takes her gaze off me then follows a couple Peacekeepers that have come to take Sade to a different room like they did with the guy from Three. She turns back as she leaves and mouths _watch your back, bitch_, as she runs her finger across her neck.

What did I just do? Oh, you just made a Career pissed at you.

_Look on the bright side!_ my optimism says cheerily. _You could already be dead!_

If my optimism were a real person, I would punch it.


	28. Anger is a Killing Thing

**Hey guys, Phoenix here. Sorry this is late-I am actually posting from Disney on vacation. I know things have been chaotic lately and it is my fault entirely what with the ER visits and now vacation. But I should be home on Tuesday and I'm hoping to get us back on schedule. I apologize, I know I've been letting you guys down. But I am feeling better-let's hope things stay that way!**

* * *

**Fritz' A.N. So I decided to do a Bells-style private session where this entire chapter is in third person because I think it is kind of boring only reading about what their face looked like before going in (but that's only my opinion).**

* * *

**Brennadon "Bren" Rydik of District 3**

**Private Training Scores (Districts 1-4) by Fritz as Pritz**

* * *

"_Temper is a weapon that we hold by the blade." ~J.M. Barrie_

* * *

The mentor, Gage, told him several times that "he couldn't play the stupid wooden egg-thing if his life depended on it." It was not unknown to anyone that Brennadon could not play his ocarina (which is understandable, considering that he had never even heard of the instrument until the day of the reaping). However, he didn't play it so that he could make beautiful music; he played it so that he could be close to the names engraved onto it.

He could feel Morgan's name whenever his lips brushed the mouthpiece and Westley's words of advice always pressed against his finger tips. "_Your left hand is an advantage. Use it."_ While playing the ocarina, he could pretend that Klara was making fun of his horrible attempt or smell the smoke from Richard's cigarette.

Nevertheless, to the average ear, the cacophony coming from the instrument was too hard to bear. His rendition of a lullaby was closer to the sound of cats making kittens. Even though several people told him on numerous occasions how horrible he was, and even though it pissed him off every time such words were said, he didn't stop playing.

It took majority of his will to not bring it to his lips as he waited by himself for the private sessions. He had been alone recently, which bothered him more that it should have considering the fact that he grew up alone. Bren didn't know why he expected the Games to be some kind of turning point for him to actually make a friend or two. It was a silly notion considering how he has to kill at least one of them. As the loneliness sunk in, he knew that he would feel better if he could only play his ocarina, but pissing off his competition wasn't something he wanted just yet.

To try to keep his mind preoccupied, he decided to follow some of Westley's words of wisdom; "_Always keep an eye on your competition._" At that moment, his competition was the Career Gang, who he occasionally referred to as the Other Guys when he wanted to smile. Caressing Westley's words on his wooden instrument, he glanced toward the table that the six of them sat at.

They were all cocky, in his opinion. Canicus from District One continuously told the others that he will get the highest score in the private sessions. The girl from Two (whose name Bren could not remember for the life of him) countered him with her own calm remark. Admire and Con stopped batting their eyes and playing with each other for a few minutes to counter whatever Canicus or the Two girl said. They all claimed that they would get the highest rating. On several occasions, Roulla stepped in to let Con know that it is "got to" not "gotta" or to correct any of the others' grammar to which they responded with the rolling of their eyes. The only one who did not speak a word was Jet, who Bren suspected to be crazy.

In fact, he was sure that every one of them were at least a little crazy. He knew that his district partner, Maeve, was for sure. Then there is that kid from Twelve and Alexis from whatever district she was from. It made sense to vote a crazy person into the Games. He was sure that if he wasn't voted in that the boy, Jaque, (who hit the air and screamed for no good reason) would have been there instead. Bren was glad that he saved Jaque at least.

He blew into the ocarina without even realizing it and the grinding of a high and low note stung the air. All eyes jumped to him. Most only glanced, and Maeve didn't even bother looking. Canicus was the only one who spoke.

"I bet he can fight as well as he plays that thing." A few of the Careers chuckled at the remark. Bren clenched his fists and turned toward him. As much as he willed for his temper to stay down, he couldn't stop the bitter anger from seeping through his walls at the insult.

"I bet you can't put your money where your mouth is." The District One boy didn't seem the least bit bothered by what Bren was telling him and that kindled his growing fury.

"I have better things to do with my time than to play fighting with you." Bren jumped to his feet. For a moment, he forgot that he was in the Hunger Games and that he was angering the person who was probably going to kill him. All he could see was a boy who triggered his temper, probably on purpose.

"Good thing I don't like to play," he growled with his fists clenched.

Canicus turned his back to him and motioned him away with a flick of his wrist. Brennadon tried to rein in his temper—he really did—but as he caught a glimpse of the other boy's mocking eyes and cocky grin, he couldn't help himself. He had never been one to turn down a fight.

Bren took in the space between the two of them, reached for his collar, and brought back his fist to punch him. Before anything could truly escalade, a Peacekeeper grabbed onto his arms and forced them behind his back.

"Save it for the arena, tribute," he spat at him.

The Career Gang laughed at Bren as he was led away, which added more fuel to his fire. He managed to break away from the Peacekeeper, but only for a brief second before he was caught again and this time he had two others there to make sure he didn't make another escape. As he was led out of the room to "cool off," he growled at the sounds of their laughter and silently prayed that this wouldn't come back to bite him in the butt.

* * *

Canicus didn't think anything of Brennadon. Why should he? He was a nobody who knew how to use a stick. If he wanted to get himself into trouble then he would let him. All Canicus wanted was to get the preliminaries finished so he could start the Games.

"Canicus Macaulay, District One male."

He walked toward the training center without a single word to his allies. He didn't care for either of them. In the end, they would all be dead, so he didn't see much of a point in trying to be nice. He was there to win, not to make friends.

And that was exactly what he wanted to show the Gamemakers.

He went inside and chose the sharpest knife he could find, then snatched a training dummy. Kneeling beside it, he began to carve into it as if it was a piece of meat. He started at the fingers first, severing each one before beginning to cut off the arm. When he was done with both arms, he decided to carve an image into the stomach of the dummy, taking his time to make sure it was to perfection. He then worked at the lower half of the body, cutting off the feet and then the legs. After completely dismembering the dummy, he began to hack away at it, making sure there was no visible sign that it was ever a dummy in the first place.

When all that was left was a pile of scraps, he stood up and smiled at the Gamemakers. Tossing the knife to the side, he went to the other weapons, showing off his precision with one before moving onto another. When he ran out of weapons, he was dismissed with a smile of each of the Gamemakers' faces. He showed what he wanted and he knew that they loved it.

The Avoxes quickly swept up his mess as they called in the next tribute. "Admire Blanchard, District One female."

She strayed away from Con with a smirk and a wink. When she turned away from him, though, she was all seriousness. She knew that she would have no problem when it came to her private session. She knew all it would take would be a little flirting with the Gamemakers and showing off her knife skills. She might even show them how versatile she was and create a snare.

As she walked inside, she smirked. This was going to be easy.

* * *

"Jet Matthews, District Two male."

Sade watched as he smirked and walked into the training room. She wasn't sure what he was going to do in there, but she knew that it would be deadly. Everything about Jet screamed dangerous.

She waited as patiently as she could for her name to be called. Con kept leaning toward her and flirting with her, but she kindly told him to mind his own business and to leave her alone. Whenever Con did that, she thought about Colton and what she wanted to tell him. As much fun as she was having in the Games, she did miss Colton and Jace.

"Sade Artois, District Two female."

When she went into the room, the first thing she noticed was the stray pieces of what looked to be part of a training dummy. She also realized that the mace was not in its normal spot. Jet must have torn apart a dummy with the mace and judging by the pieces, he ripped it to shreds.

She wasn't afraid, though, because she knew that she could do better. She ran through the obstacle course, not faltering once. She dove and jumped and climbed and ran faster than she had ever done before. As she ran to the knives station, she threw some of them and sparred with a dummy for a little bit. By the time she was finished, Sade was sure that she had nothing to worry about.

* * *

"Brennadon Rydik, District Three male."

He slipped his hands into his pockets as he entered the training room. He hardly gave the Gamemakers a second glance as he picked up a training dummy and dragged it to the painting area. It was difficult for him to keep his temper reigned in this long and he was sure that if he didn't act soon, he would explode. Kneeling beside the blue paint, he dipped his finger in and wrote "Canicus" across the chest of the dummy. He could have sworn he heard one of the Gamemakers chuckle once they read it.

He hung up the dummy then went to the weapons area to grab a spear, which was the closest he could get to a quarterstaff. He made sure the balance was good and flourished with it for a moment before going back to the dummy. Bren trembled from the unreleased emotion.

With all of his strength, he thrust the spear into the gut of the dummy. In one fluid movement, he pulled it out then hit it in between its legs with the other end. However, since the spear was shorter than he was used to, it hardly grazed the private area he intended to hit. As he saw his mistake, he gritted his teeth and hit the side of the dummy, causing it to fly off of its binding.

Tossing the spear to the side, he climbed on top of it and smashed his fist into the head. He imagined that it was Canicus with his smug grin and overconfident eyes. He couldn't deny the pleasure that ran through his blood as he continued to hit the dummy with all of his unreleased fury.

By the time his anger subsided, the top half of the dummy was ruined and a few of his knuckles were bleeding. The word "Canicus" was only a blue smudge now with the rest of the paint on his pants. He stood up on shaky legs and glanced at the Gamemakers. A few smirked, but most wore a blank expression.

"You may go, Brennadon," the Head Gamemaker said with her intense teal eyes staring into his soul.

Clearing his throat, he nodded and walked toward the door. _At least I gave them a good show_, he thought.

* * *

"_You have to throw your private sessions_," Diode told Maeve as she waited for her name to be called.

"Why does Death want that?" she asked him.

"_He says that if you want to win the Games you have to throw the session._"

"Maeve Morghal, District Three female."

"_Here's your time. Now be bad._"

Maeve muttered an acknowledgement to Doide then went into her private session. With her mind frame set, she went to the rope station and made a few standard snares. She thought about showing them a weak trap, but decided against it. She knew that she shouldn't try too hard if she wanted to give up on her session, so she made one last snare, thanked the Gamemakers, and left.

"_If that wasn't throwing a private session, I don't know what is._" Maeve smiled at her accomplishment.

* * *

"Con Rossencourte, District Four male."

He stood up with a smile and nodded his head at his partner. "Good luck in there, dol—Roulla."

"Good luck to you, too," she responded politely.

He smirked. "Ah don't need luck." With his head held high, he walked into the room with a swagger and a grin. Con chose a small axe and started to sneak around, showing off his stealth. He would hide behind one station, lurk to another, and then use the axe to cut something in half, whether it be a training dummy or a can of paint.

The grin never left his face. He had already done this several times at the Career trials and he knew what it took to make the crowd happy. He lived for that.

Eventually, he was finished and they called in the next tribute. "Roulla Saney, District Four female."

She walked to the room with her head held high and eyes focused. The others could fool around all they wanted, but Roulla was not interested in any of that. She knew what she had to do and she was going to do it.

The minute she stepped into the training room, she ran to the throwing knives, snatching a handful and then immediately throwing one after another at each target. She made sure to run while throwing a knife and try several different angles, hitting her intended target each time.

She did this twice, giving nearly the exact same show as before. She wanted to make sure that the Gamemakers knew her consistency made her just as deadly as all the others and by the end, Roulla knew she made her point.

* * *

When Brennadon went back to his floor, Lucea ran to him and asked him how everything went, all the while touching him at every chance she got. Bren told her on numerous occasions that he didn't want her ridiculously long fingernails on him, but a little insult never stopped the horribly persistent Lucea Wellington. If he hadn't released most of his anger during his private session, he might have hit her.

"I'm taking a nap," he told her at his door.

"Dinner is in an hour, Brennadon, and don't you try missing out on it like what Jules tried to do last year. I will not tolerate your—"

Bren shut the door on her and rolled his eyes; he didn't want to hear her now or ever. Taking off his shirt, he went to the bathroom to rinse off. When his gaze caught onto the mirror, he noticed the bruises from his last practice with Westley as well as some of the deeper scars from the alleged fist fights in which his competitors brought knives.

His fingers trailed one of the scars that cut dangerously close to his heart. He remembered that one because he was on his way to Ellie's birthday party (the first one his siblings were letting him go to), but the dipshit Wyre followed him through the town square and kept muttering how he was a bastard and that if Morgan was stupid enough to date him then she might as well be a whore. The last comment was the one that sent him off the edge and Bren swore he could have won if Wyre didn't cheat and bring out a knife from his pocket. He nearly severed an artery and died. He couldn't help seeing the irony in the situation since, considering how much the Other Guys love their knives, he will still be dying from a stabbing.

As he turned his back he saw the worst of his scars, the ones from the whippings. You're supposed to get five floggings for every fight in which a Peacekeeper has to break up, but generally Bren was lucky enough to run away before they got to him. Not to mention that Westley asked his fellow Peacekeepers to go easy on him. Despite all of that, his back was still layered with the raised scars of his lashings, most of them crisscrossing on each other. Years of training had left Brennadon very comfortable with his body, but the mangled flesh of his back would always give him squirm a little.

With a deep sigh, he turned away from the mirror, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and went to the shower. He pressed a button he recognized from his shower back home and gave a soft "ah" as the heat collided with his sensitive skin. He closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts and the steam building around him.

Westley always told him that his temper was to be the death of him, and that the others would leave him alone if he didn't let their words get to him. However, as much as Bren tried, he couldn't help wanting to punch every dipshit who called him a bad name. That caused him to get into more fights, which made more people hate him for being a troublemaker.

Shutting off the water, he grabbed a towel and dried himself as best as he could. He thought about slipping his clothes back on, but decided to grab new ones from the closet instead. If he had known that Lucea would be waiting for him when he opened the door, he would have at least put on some pants.

"_Brennadon Rydik!_ How dare you shut the door on someone while they are talking to you? Don't you know how rude that it?" He tilted his head to the side. The smile on her face counteracted the anger in her eyes, creating one creepy looking expression. An easy way for the Gamemakers to scare him in the arena would to place pictures of that expression everywhere.

Blinking, he gathered up his wits and returned to the situation at hand. "I think it's rude to walk into someone's room while they are still in a towel," he muttered as he slid toward the closet.

Lucea's eyes widened as she realized that he was, indeed, clad in only a towel and her long fingernails reached out to his chest. Her gaze visibly travelled lower.

Blushing scarlet, he grabbed a pair of pants and strategically slid them on while attempting to keep himself covered with the towel. He couldn't tell whether he was very successful or not. Judging by the the flush in the pale woman's cheeks, he guessed not. "Get out of here, Lucea," he growled when he buttoned the jeans.

Blinking a few times, she grabbed a hold of herself. "I demand an apology for your rude behavior."

Bren felt his temper rising again, not only from being peeped on by this crazy woman but also because she was getting on his last nerves. However, he knew he could not simply punch his escort. "Can't you at least let me finish changing?"

"I will not have my tributes being inconsiderate, so you will apologize to me." It was an excuse so that she could continue staring, of course. She stepped closer and touched his toned abdomen.

Brennadon snatched her wrist with a speed that he only held when he was visibly angry. He scowled at her and she matched his expression (or as well as she could match it with her lips still curled upward). "Don't touch me," he growled, slowly releasing her from his grip.

Lucea narrowed her eyes at him, not wanting to be intimidated. "You must really be gentler to women. Your little girlfriend must be as bruised as you are."

Bren could almost hear himself snap at Lucea's unintended insult. The memory of when he had unintentionally signed his fate away as a little boy came into his mind. Polly was his friend, his neighbor, but she called him the one word that he told her he hated being called. A mistake. He remembered the tears in his eyes as she sneered at him, turning against him after he had trusted her. He couldn't take the way she was looking at him and the way everyone was laughing so he did the only thing he knew how. He fought and he hit her. That turned everyone against him. He hit a defenseless girl who was smaller than him. The bastard son is girl-hitting bully.

As the memory replayed in his mind, his bloody knuckles went white. He wanted to hit Lucea so badly for tearing open that raw wound with her pristinely long nails. He was willing to face the consequence. Then, he remembered the look of hatred on everyone's face as he walked through town. Never in his life had he felt hated so much and he never wanted to live through that again. He forced himself to take a shaky breath. "I'm sorry for slamming the door on you," he said through gritted teeth.

His escort smirked to herself, obviously missing the edge in his tone. "See. Was that so hard?" She turned around and walked out, trying her hardest to show off the sway in her hips. Under different circumstances, Bren would have laughed at her.

When she left his room, Brennadon finally let the fog of rage take over his eyes as he grabbed onto a pillow and tore at it with all of his might. The seams split open and feathers flew out to try to escape this man's wrath, but even they could not get away in time as he slashed at them with his hand like a monster trying to swat at a fly. His hands searched for anything and everything that he could tear away at; he didn't care what it was. He let every wall, fence, or barrier he had ever built tumble down in his mind as the bitter anger and tears took over him. His best friend hated him so much that she turned on him. His own flesh and blood never even wanted to see him. What was the point in even trying to go back home when all he would have going back is the abuse from his district? In his heart, he knew it didn't matter much. They didn't send him to the Games to win, they sent him to die. If they wanted him to die, then so be it. No one would care anyway.

As he frantically searched for another pillow to destroy, his hand wrapped around the ocarina and he felt Faraday's name against his fingertips. He had Faraday and Morgan and everyone else who signed his token. He had his father. They didn't want him to die.

He took slow steady breaths, closed his eyes, and counted to twenty in his head like when he was a little boy. When he opened his eyes, he was slightly surprised at the mess he had made. Every pillow that was on his bed laid in remnants on the ground with a layer of feathers covering everything, even himself. A vase that was on his desk fell over and shattered, though he didn't remember ever coming into contact with it. The books that the Capitol left to educate tributes about their greatness was more a less a pile of kindling which joined the feathers on the ground.

As it dawned on him that he was the one who created this hurricane, the door crept open. A dirty blonde Avox stood in the doorway looking at the wreckage with his jaw slack and eyes wide. His wide blue orbs jumped from Brennadon to the mess and back to Brennadon, unable to believe that this lanky kid was able to produce such damage.

"Um, sorry," he muttered as his cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment. "I'll help you clean it up, okay?"

The only response the Avox could give him was a weak nod. As the pair began to sweep up the mess, the Avox reasoned that if he could place a bet, all of his money would be on this kid.


	29. Right in the Kisser

__I'm home, exhausted and slightly irritated. The good news is that updates should be back to normal now. Next update should be Tuesday! Sorry for this taking so long and thank you for baring with me through this. Now let me give you over to the more than capable Damian!

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__Damian Blackwater of District 8

Private Training Session 2 by **xXTeamFinnickXx**

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_"If I'm a bad person, you don't like me,_

_Well, I guess I'll make my own way,_

_It's a circle, a mean cycle,_

_I can't excite you anymore."_

_- Paramore_

* * *

Never in my seventeen years of living have I met someone who cared less about the crap going on around them, no matter how extreme, than I do. Today, I finally did.

"Come on," I mutter under my breath as the District 4 tributes finish up their private sessions and exit. I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for Anya to get her lazy ass down here. She's managed to be the only tribute to not show up on time.

I feel like I should be pissed at her. After all, we're district partners. If she's not here, that'll make me look bad, which will ultimately result in my death. The gamemakers don't appreciate people who don't play by their rules, and while I'm all for running against the law, I cherish my life. I'm willing to obey them, only for a few weeks, if it means escaping this thing alive.

But for some strange reason, I can't stay angry at Anya.

Alright, go ahead, I give you permission to make fun of me. You're probably wondering what happened to the hard-ass thief who hated everyone and everything and wished they all fell in a hole and burned alive. Well, he may have changed just a little bit.

You see, Anya is different than the rest of humanity. Sure, half the time she's drunk off her ass and doesn't know what's going on, but when she's not, she can be kind of awesome. It started right after the reaping. We were herded onto the train that would take us to the Capitol. We had dinner immediately and I couldn't help but notice her staring at me several times. When we went to our rooms for the night, there was a knock on my door that, obviously, belonged to her. I let her in where she opened up her hands to reveal the only thing I care about in the world.

_SQUEAK._

"Quiet!" I whisper, praying no one heard. I unzip the pocket to my training jacket and look into the wide, brown eyes of my very own partner in crime, Bandit the ferret. "Listen bud, you've gotta keep quiet, or they're gonna take you away again, got it?" My highly intelligent sidekick nods his little rodent head and nestles back into my side.

"Atlanta Zimmerman," calls a man from the doors that lead to the private training area. I recognize the name as the District 5 female. She gets up from her table and strolls confidently to the doors. As she passes me, she flashes a devious grin, striding with pride into the training room. _Someone sure is cocky,_I think to myself.

The girl disappears behind the doors and the room is filled with dead silence again. I glance around nervously. Great, still no sign of Anya. Where the hell is she?

I do my best to listen in on Atlanta's session, just as I've been doing so far. With the Career districts, it wasn't hard to figure out who was doing well and who wasn't. They were…very loud to say the least. Or maybe the walls are just thin. Either way, I can guarantee the pack is a strong one this year. But Atlanta is extremely quiet. I can't really tell how she's doing.

After a short amount of time, the girl emerges from the room, still looking as confident as ever. Not even waiting for her district partner, she walks swiftly over to the elevator and heads up to her room.

I watch as Bastian Estatika walks slowly into the room, directly after his partner. His session is just as silent as Atlanta's, not really giving me any insight as to what went down.

Anxiously, I being to drum my fingers against the table I sit at, glancing over at the other tributes. Everyone seems to be either cocky or nervous, which I guess makes sense. I run my right hand through my trimmed black hair, attempting to keep my heart rate down. If I let nerves get the best of me today, who knows what'll go wrong.

Bastian's session is rather slow and he comes walking out the doors, heading for the elevator immediately.

"Londyn Aureole."

I watch as the girl from District 6 shyly gets up and walks to the large doors, her lip quivering. As she passes, I can't help but stare at her inquisitively. There's something more to that girl. I don't think she's just some weakling.

Then again, I also think too much. I watch as the doors close, and can't help but notice a small butterfly hover over Londyn's head. What the hell is _that_about?

Groaning, I turn back around and lean forward onto the table I sit at. I just now realize that I'm heading in there soon. In a matter of minutes, it'll be my time to show the gamemakers what I've got. And that makes me wonder…what do I even have to show?

My superior intellect, obviously, but how does one display that? I can't take a scan of my brain and show them my IQ. The most I can do is run around a bit and show off my speed, not that that'll do me any good. I have to think of a way to wow them, but it just isn't coming to me.

I think for a few minutes about what to do, having to reach down to stop Bandit from falling out of my pocket once, but I have absolutely nothing. I guess I'll be doing what I do best; winging it.

Once Londyn's session is over, she leaves the training center looking modestly pleased with herself. I know I'll never find out what it was she did in there, but I don't think it was what the gamemakers were expecting. Seconds later, her district partner, Edrick Quillheart, makes his way to the training room. He appears to have a large array of emotions flowing through him, and honestly, I can't tell what's going on in his puny little brain. I assume he's nervous, but then again, he could be the most confident guy on the planet right now.

The doors slam behind him and I decide to really think about what I have to do in front of the gamemakers. I'm in deep thought when I'm interrupted by a loud, obnoxious shout.

"AIRSTRIKE! AIRSTRIKE!" I hear, immediately whipping my head around to face the source of the noise. The yell is coming from none other than Jonas Emerson of District 7. All of the other tributes are staring at him like I am, wondering what the hell is going on. He slams his palm down on his table, getting up and karate chopping the air like a moron.

_Class A,_I think. _Definitely Class A._

"Ah, mother of God!" he continues, pounding at something on the wall. "Kill it with fire!"

I rub my fingers across my forehead, stress getting the better of me. "What the hell are you swatting at?" I can't help but ask. The boy is about to respond when a small fly skids across my table, coming to a stop right in front of me. Staring at Jonas, I shoot him my biggest you-have-got-to-be-joking look and in one swift movement, the fly's wings are pinned between my fingers. I flick it aside and watch as it bounces across the ground. Obviously embarrassed, Jonas takes his seat again.

If these are the kind of people I'm dealing with, I should be home in no time.

As if on cue, Edrick's session finishes up. He has a good amount of sweat dripping down his face, and I figure he must have put on a good show in there.

"Alexis Spurling," I hear, and watch the girl from 7 stand up, shaking her head in shame, probably angry at her district partner for looking like an idiot. She closes the doors gently behind her when she enters the training room. I can't help but notice a small yelp coming from her on the other side. Poor kid. Probably scared of weapons. Or the gamemakers. Or both. Heh, sucks to be her.

After a few minutes of waiting for Alexis to finish up, I hear the _ding_of the elevator, turning my head to see who's coming down. Honestly, I'm shocked to see the face of Anya Powers finally arriving.

What I'm _not_ shocked to see is the stream of alcohol dripping from her lip.

"Are you serious?" I mutter, just loud enough for her to hear. Anya trips out of the elevator, fumbling to get a grip on the wall beside her so she can maintain her balance. I glance around, figuring that if she reunited me with Bandit, the least I can do is help her to a table. I quickly jog over and grab her arm, letting her use me to keep herself on her feet until I can sit her down on the bench beside me.

"Anya," I whisper. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"There are many, _many_things wrong with me, Danny."

"Damian," I correct, rolling my eyes. I watch as Alexis exits the training room, a look of horror on her face. I stop myself from laughing too hard as she passes. Jonas, the fly swatting spaz, silently gets up and takes her place.

"Whatever, Danny," I hear in my ear. Rolling my eyes, I focus my attention back on Anya. I shake my head in disgust as she batters her eyelids at me. "What? There's nothing wrong with a few drinks."

"You're right," I correct. "But there _is_ something wrong with a lot of drinks, especially right before a training session that could potentially determine the length of your life."

She shrugs, laughing loudly in my face. I shrink away, trying not to inhale her beer-infused breath.

I spend the next few minutes trying to keep Anya from toppling over while ignoring her drunken slurs. She's obviously more wasted than she's ever been before. I mean, the Capitol has probably introduced her to a whole new kind of alcohol. A much more expensive, intoxicating kind.

I can't say I'm upset when it's her time to perform for the gamemakers.

"Try not to kill yourself, okay?" I ask. She only winks and skips into the room. Seriously? Was the skipping necessary?

I catch a few of the remaining tributes snickering at my misfortune. Standing up, I shoot them a glare full of daggers and demand, "Is something funny?" Needless to say, that shuts them up.

I resume my anxious finger-tapping and hair-ruffling as I wait for Anya to return. I mean, I guess I'm a little concerned for what the gamemakers think of her right now, but really, I'm more worried about what they'll think of me. After my district partner humiliates herself in front of them, will they be able to take me seriously?

"Damian Blackwater."

I guess I'm about to find out.

I pass Anya on my way to the doors and whisper, "How'd you do?"

"Danny," she says coolly. "I did fantastic, obviously. Don't I always?" She giggles and stumbles to the elevator.

I shake my head in disapproval, something I've been doing a lot lately, and walk steadily into the training room. I have to squint my eyes a bit as the bright light takes over me, but I manage to make myself look fearless enough. I proudly take my place in the center of the room and look over the gamemakers. It seems they couldn't be bothered to take a break from their lunch to watch us train. So thoughtful of them.

"Hi there," I say with a fake smile. "I'm just gonna, you know, do some stuff for you guys now. I hope you're ready. I'm gonna blow you away." No response. Not even a look. "I'm just gonna go now." Nope. Still not listening. "Alright, so I'm just gonna head on over here and dance on my head for a while. Maybe my friend Larry the orange dinosaur will join me. We can have big old part filled with chipmunks and confetti. I hope you all brought your party hats." Not a single blink. Figures.

"Morons," I mutter, as if someone was actually listening. I head over to a large rack of weapons with a forest of dummies laid out for me to attack. I grab the hilt of an axe and try to lift it, but it turns out to be a lot heavier than I expected. I'm afraid I look pathetic when I remember no one's actually watching.

Hey…No one's watching.

Whistling as I go, I grab a handful of small spears and walk straight over to a target. I jab three spears right in the bull's eye, positioning them so it looks like I threw them. With the rest, I jog over to the complete opposite end of the circular room, setting them down beside me.

"WHOA." I shout, getting the attention of a few gamemakers. "Would you look at that? Three bull's eyes in a row, and from all the way over here. Bet you haven't seen that before, huh?"

The few gamemakers that looked over appear mildly amused, but they go back to eating almost instantly.

Frowning, I lean against the wall and look up at the throng of Capitol freaks. "Alright, listen you costumed bozos," I say demandingly. Thankfully, most of them look over, appalled at the tone of my voice. "If you're not going to pay me any mind, could you just give me a solid eight and be done with it?"

Several gamemakers laugh before one speaks up. "I'm afraid that's not how it works."

"Then how _does_ it work? Do you sit there, eat your lunch, give the Careers tens and elevens and randomize the rest of our scores?"

"Not quite," the man says, clearly agitated. "Why don't you show us what you can do and then we'll talk."

I smirk. "Well, I'm done. I already severed the heads of a few dummies, ran around the room in six seconds, and threw those spears from all the way over here at that target. You just missed it all."

"I don't buy that."

"Well, if you weren't paying attention, I guess you'll never know." I smile widely at them as a few mutter amongst themselves.

"Mr. Blackwater," says one. "I think you can go now."

"It's about time." I respond, eagerly walking to the doors. "It was a pleasure meeting you, and I hope you enjoy your lunch. You've been a great audience. Drive safely!"

I slam the doors behind me as I walk angrily to the elevator. I feel bad for whoever has to go after me. The gamemakers are probably downright pissed now.

Impatiently, I press the button to the elevator several times before it opens, jumping back in surprise at the face waiting to greet me. "Anya," I say in silenced rage. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing much. I just discovered that when you press these buttons, you go up and down! Isn't that neat?"

"Dear God," I mumble. "Alright, it's official, you're going to bed."

"But I don't wanna!"

"Well, that's too bad, because I'm in no mood to put up with your…" I trail off, realizing what I sound like. "What am I, your mom? Shut up and press that button over there." I step inside and Anya reluctantly hits the eight button, sending us shooting upwards.

"Has anyone ever told you your eyes are really pretty?"

I turn my head to catch Anya all up in my grill and jump again. "Knock it off!" I shout. "And no, they haven't, because no one's been conscious long enough to-"

I'm cut off by the pressure of something warm digging into my lips. I'm pressed against the wall as my eyes close themselves, totally against my will. My heart rate slows down to a sluggish, relaxed pace. I feel someone's hand brush against my arm as the elevator doors slide open on our floor.

Anya steps back and I realize what just happened. "Anya Powers!" I yell. "What was that?"

"A kiss!" she says back giddily. "You looked down, so I thought you could use one!"

I blink my eyes in astonishment. I'm not even aware that Bandit bounds out of my pocket and scurries out the doors and onto our floor. Did Anya Powers…Anya Powers just gave me my first kiss.

She skips out the door after Bandit, leaving me in a state of disbelief. I stagger backwards, using the wall to keep myself upright.

Finally, the full realization hits me. Anya may be drunk all the time, but when she's not, she's…a different person. She's intelligent, witty, determined, and beautiful.

Anya's not just any ordinary human. She's in Class C.


	30. Drastic Plans, Drastic Actions

**Here we go as promised! Next update should be Thursday ^_^. The arena isn't far now. Be...terrified!**

* * *

**Eric Fiske – Private Training Sessions Part Three (D9 - D12)**

**Private Training 3 By NicKenny**

* * *

"_There are many things more horrible than bloodshed, and slavery is one of them!" – Padraig Pearse_

* * *

I sat down on the smooth metal bench in the waiting room and quickly become immersed in my own private world, running various scenarios through my head, finalizing my plan of action, trying to keep my cool, despite the rage that still courses through my veins. Quite frankly I'm surprised they let me wait with the other tributes, my decorum in the Capitol has been…. well, it had been far from ideal. I looked around the room, sizing up the other tributes waiting their turn to impress the Gamemakers.

_Impress. As though we had to justify our inclusion in these "games". As though we had to prove ourselves to them._

Bianca next to me, breathing slowly, clearly trying to calm her nerves. I hope she'll be ok. These past few days had been hard on her. Harder than on anyone else in my opinion. My mind flashes back to what had happened on our train ride to the Capitol and my blood begins to boil once more. The look of terror and helplessness on the Avox's face as the Peacekeeper pulled the trigger. His look of smug satisfaction and enjoyment. The sudden explosion of noise and blood, and Bianca's screams of despair and fear as I drag her back from the corpse. I was overcome with a sense of déjà vu, remembering another time when it had been me screaming as I was dragged away from an act just as sickeningly brutal. Each day, seeing that Peacekeeper's face, had hardened my hatred of both the Capitol and the Peacekeepers. A new entry was added to the list of people I would quite happily see dead.

She sat a good foot away from me however, clearly still apprehensive about me after yesterday. I suppose I couldn't blame her, though it did cause me pain me that she should feel afraid of me. What I had once suspected I now knew for sure: I could never harm her. Not even if my own life was at stake. No matter what the Capitol wanted us to be, no matter what I needed to do to survive this, I would never surrender who and what I was. I would never become a monster.

I looked away and worked my way through the rest of the tributes. The two Nine's, sitting next to each other at the far end of the room, the girl, Juniper Harris, small and slight but containing an air of determination that I found… interesting. I didn't know much about her, the gambling stations had virtually ignored her, preferring to talk up the various Careers, or the more obviously threatening tributes from the outlying Districts. She worried me though… I had visited the Edible Plants section during training at the same time as her and, by the end of it, she had left the poor guy running it in a daze, showing serious knowledge on poisonous plants. Even my knowledge paled in comparison. And I mean, I grew up in the _agricultural _district.

Next to her was the boy from Nine, whose name continued to baffle me and to resist all of my attempts at memorizing This annoyed me. I had memorized the twenty- two other names, hundreds of deaths from previous games, various types of mutations and their weak points along with dozens of strategies, and this kid's name continued to elude me. Other than his name, which had gained the interest of many, little was known about him. His parents were relatively high-up in District Nine. I took that as a good sign. He wouldn't know the meaning of the word hunger. He also apparently used hearing aids, which could only be a disadvantage in the arena. He glanced up at me and I quickly averted my eyes. I had caught the attention of too many other tributes as it was. Being big wasn't always of benefit in these games. It made you a target. It also made people assume you were dumb, as though brawn and brains were incompatible. I'd show them how wrong they were.

Across from me sat the District Twelve's, both in worlds of their own, the girl Galla… Cinder, I think, was staring at her hands, clasped together in her lap. She look worried, though was clearly trying to put on a brave face, helped by the attempt she had made to create an aura of gloom, with her black clothes and permanent scowl. My heart went out to her. She and Bianca seemed to share certain similarities. Maybe they'd ally. I don't know how I'd rate her chances of winning though, whether she was in an alliance or not. The Hunger Games were won by the strong, the cunning and the ruthless. That's why the Careers had been so successful in previous years. That and their training.

Thankfully I didn't have to deal with Careers today. But there were others who worried me almost as much, which brings me to Twelve's male tribute Lucian Drake, who was currently burning holes into my skull. I was starting to think he had a problem with me, perhaps blaming my…challenging of the Careers as the reason why the pack had ignored him, preferring to close ranks, admitting only the "trustworthy" natural Careers into their midst. Perhaps my previous… interactions with the Careers hadn't been wise. This year's Career pack was definitely looking more… dangerous than last year's. Bigger, with a strong leadership and more tributes. And I had pissed them off.

I had one thing they didn't have though. Brains. This Macaulay pyscho may be more of a traditional Career than last year's pack leader, from whom I had learned only one thing: Do not jump into fire. However, he came across as a typical One tribute. Brawn without brains. He wasn't the threat there. This Lucian kid though… he wasn't a Career. He didn't have their snobbery or ego, but an edge that I had rarely seen in tributes. Except in the District Four mentor, Fidget. Who had murdered most of his own pack in his Games. I had seen enough of Drake in training to know that he definitely had been training but… he was from Twelve. Twelve's never trained. They were usually the least prepared of the districts, and most often perished in the bloodbath. Even Eleven's had a better history than their tributes.

He was still staring at me. It was beginning to creep me out. If I had ever seen a kid deserving of the title nutjob, it was this one. He even twitched occasionally! I wonder if he had found someone dumb enough to ally with him, and if they really knew what they were getting themselves into. It wouldn't be the first time a small, quiet tribute had slaughtered the other members of their alliance while they slept. He definitely had the throat-cutter look about him.

Ok, he was definitely beginning to irritate me. I briefly considered asking him to stop, but I'd had enough conversations turn violent these last few days. Ignoring him would be the smarter decision. I had alienated enough people, particularly the Careers. Anymore and I may as well paint a target on my back.

Had it been a good idea to get involved with the Careers at all? Maybe not, the argument had meant nothing to me, I didn't have to get involved. But they had irritated me, intimidating some of the weaker looking of the other tributes, openly mocking others. I guess I had too much of my dad's blood in me. I couldn't stand by and leave things alone.

_I guess that's what I had always admired about him._

Anyway, when that Powers girl had fought them at their own game, mocking them to the point where they were prepared to kill her then and there, rules or no rules, I stepped in, putting myself between them and her, not really sure why, perhaps seeing something in her that I saw in my eyes every time I looked into a mirror.

_Defiance._

-0-

I had backed off slowly, eyes boring holes into Macaulay's, refusing to break eye contact until I reached the sling training area. I grabbed the one nearest to me, loaded one of the metal spheres they use as substitutes for stones and took aim, before sending the sphere through the head of a wooden dummy, throwing up a cloud of dust and wooden splinters. I continued to obliterate the rest of the dummies lined up, leaving that section a mess of cracked and splintered wood, coated in a layer of dust, and began to move onto another section, when a voice called out behind me, in a tone that clearly stated: I'm pissed and it's your fault.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I turned around slowly and nod. "Hello Anya."

She shakes her head. "Hello? What the fuck was that? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?!"

I stared at her for a moment, before finally realising that she was angry with me. "I'm sorry, but where I come from, someone saving you from getting the shit beaten out of you is something to be thankful about."

"What?! I was messing around! Why is everyone here so goddamn serious?!"

She shook her head in exasperation, turned around and began to walk off before I grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. I was angry, for reasons I wasn't entirely sure off, but something about her just set me off.

"We're serious because, despite whatever you currently think, IS REAL. You were laughing at a group of people who are not only expected to, but who will be only too happy to kill you should they get the chance to. No matter what this is called, these aren't games! You see all these people? In a few weeks, all but one of them will be dead. And that includes you! So yeah, we're serious! Because you need to be if you want to live!"

We had stared at each other for a moment, me breathing quite heavily, before she looked away and nodded slowly. "I guess you have a point." she muttered, looking back at the Careers gathered at the other end of the training room, before reluctantly adding. "Thanks."

She paused a while longer. "Still, why'd you get involved? You didn't have to."

I stared at her and shrugged. "I… I know what it's like to lose a parent to the Peacekeepers… I guess I just felt it was about time someone had cut you some slack."

She nodded slowly, though I was under the impression that she hadn't heard a word I said. I had stared at her for a while longer before noticing the stench of alcohol on her breath. I cocked my head in surprise, remembered the video of her Reaping and suddenly everything made sense. "You're fucking drunk aren't you?"

She looked back at me; her eyes slightly closed and raised a hand slowly. "What me? Drunk? I…I'm not drunk. I'm one hundred per cent sober!" She paused and blinked a few times. "What were we talking about?"

I sighed, and shook my head again. "How have you been getting the drink? Tributes aren't allowed alcohol."

"Would you believe I've been telling the bartender at the Mentor's room that I'm Aleah Armani?"

I looked her up and down, mentally comparing her to last year's victor. "No."

She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "Fair enough. My escort's a secret alcoholic. He used to hide some brandy in his room."

"Used to?"

She just smiled and laughed. "Exactly!"

She glanced back over to the Career pack, who had spotted us talking and were muttering to each other.

She looked back at me. "You want to get some lunch?"

-0-

I smiled to myself. It hadn't been the most… orthodox of starts but after that day I discovered I had gained myself an ally. Despite her… alcoholic tendencies, Anya was smart, insightful and a little bit insane, but in a good way. I could have done worse. And after pissing off the Careers, life in the Arena without an ally seemed like it would be decidedly… short.

I glanced back at Lucian, who was still staring at me. I had to hand it to the kid, he was dedicated, I mean, he didn't even blink! Definitely something crazy going on with him. Starting to wonder whether any of the tributes here were entirely sane. Was I? I'm beginning to have second thoughts on that front. A week ago I would have been horrified at the thought of killing another person, utterly repelled and disgusted. Now… now it was becoming more and more of a reality. Something that I had to accept and move past.

_If I'm to survive, I'm going to have to become a killer. I'm going to have to become everything I ever hated, in order to hold on to everything I've ever loved._

Could I do this, surrender my inhibitions in order to see the people I love once more, once I would have said never…now… I'm not so sure. Not after what happened last night.

-0-

I headed back to the District Eleven quarters after training, fairly happy with the progress I had made. I wouldn't match a Career but I'd be able to hold my own against pretty much everyone else with a sword. Given how often swords turned up in previous Games, I was reasonably confident that I'd be able to get my hands on a weapon that I could at least use. I was idly chatting with Kendrick, one of the two escorts District Eleven had been assigned due to our lack of a mentor, discussing strategy and alliances.

I have to admit, I was pleased when I found out Kendrick was assigned to us. Though he was at first put off by my… reserved ways, (so I don't talk much! How is that supposed to affect my chances at winning this?!) he proved to be a good escort, providing me with footage of this year's various Reapings, the majority of past Games, as apparently a good thirty seconds of last year's footage had been removed concerning Moss Dorian's speech. I don't really see why it mattered, the majority of people in the districts had already seen it. It hadn't been that inflammatory anyway, worse was said every day in the fields and orchards of District Eleven. But we had never been the most… peaceful of districts. It had been Eleven who had surrendered last at the end of the Dark Days. Only after she had been abandoned by her allies, and left to fight alone.

_Fuck you President Finn indeed._

We walked into our quarters where the table had been set for dinner, Bianca and Vikus were already eating, when I saw a face from the past, a face that I had never thought to see again. She was standing by another door, leading from this room to one of the maze of corridors that linked the various rooms in this section of the Capitol.

When she saw me, her face took on a look of both extreme sadness and terror. I froze in place, my mouth forming just one word as she shook her head quickly and ran out the door.

I made to follow her, passing Kendrick and Bianca before Vikus grabbed my arm and held me back.

"Eric what's the matter?" he asked, his golden face wearing a look of confusion. "Did that Avox take something of yours?"

I stared at him blankly, my mind numb, feeling dead to the world around me, and dreamily punched him. My fist seemed to sail through the air, moving at an incredibly slow pace yet when it connected with Vikus' face there was an audible crack and he fell to the ground, blood streaming from his nose. I looked down at him, as he sobbed on the floor, and slowly said, with my voice growing louder and angrier with each word.

"What give you the right to cut out someone's tongue and force them into slavery! Who the fuck do you think you are?! They're people too, with hopes…dreams…friends…FAMILIES!"

I heard something moving behind me and remembered the Peacekeeper that had been assigned to us, to keep us from causing "trouble". I turned around, and saw a blur of white, just as he leapt for me, and caught him by the shoulders, swinging him around and smashing him through the dinner table. I drew my fist back and looked into his eyes, and remembered the look of satisfaction on his face as he killed that poor girl on the train. In my mind, her face changed to the face of the Avox that had just left the room, her features taking on the look of despair and horror that I had seen on the train. I saw the Peacekeeper smile as he executed her, as he executed my mother.

My whole body felt numb, I felt as though I was viewing all of this from somewhere outside my own body, my brain not able to take in all of the emotions that were running through me. I smashed my fist into the Peacekeepers face, and again, and would have thrown a third punch but for the arms that pulled me back, holding me tightly as I felt a something sting my neck, and then I knew nothing more, enveloped in darkness and silence.

I woke up in my room, lying on my bed in the same clothes I had gone to dinner in, although these were not covered in blood and food, and my hands weren't bloodied and bruised from the fighting I had been in earlier, causing me to wonder if it had all been some crazy nightmare. I lay there for what felt like hours, running my memories through my head, daring to hope that it really had just been a dream, when I pulled out my dorak from underneath my training vest, and noticed a tiny smear of blood on the bottom of it, shattering my hopes.

Kendrick or Bianca must have alerted more Peacekeepers, I mused, and they had arrived just in time to prevent me from leaving that Peacekeeper's brains smeared across the floor. I gingerly touched my neck but failed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Someone had done their work well, removing the traces of… last night? I had no idea how much time had passed.

I got up off my bed and slowly walked to the door, feeling slightly groggy and weak. I went over to the door but found that it was, somewhat unsurprisingly, locked. I punched the frame and winced as pain shot up my arm and, shaking my hand, walked back to my bed and flopped down on it.

_So my mother's alive._

I wasn't sure if this was something to be happy about or not. I had long ago come to terms with her being dead. If she was dead no one could hurt her anymore, the worst had already happened. Instead… she had been made into an Avox… her tongue cut out, forced into slavery in the Capitol until she had outlived her usefulness to them. I felt the anger build up inside me once more. How could the Capitol's citizens justify something like this to themselves, enslaving a woman, robbing her child of a mother, letting her wait on them hand and foot. How could they live with themselves? How could they be so impossibly self-centered?

I lay down on my bed, holding my dorak up to the light and examining the bloodstain. How, if they had eliminated all other traces, was there still blood on it? Was it simply carelessness? Or was it a warning? Did someone want me to know that everything did indeed happen?

But if they did, then why go to such lengths to conceal it in the first place? I spent hours mulling this over, before coming to the realization that despite the attempts to cover everything up, someone was sending a message to me. That my mother would be working in the area where I staying, with all the tens if not hundreds of thousands of people living in the Capitol, and with the thousands of buildings, could not be a simple coincidence.

_But why?_

Who'd bother to go to such trouble, and to what end? To provoke me, to scare me, to cause me pain or to threaten me?

_Why?_

-0-

I still didn't have an answer. But I had found another reason to encourage me to win these games. For Damien and Adam. For the other Scarecrows in my district, it was well past time they gain the honour they deserve. For my dad. To spite Ryne Artois. And now for my mother, maybe if I won this Quarter Quell I could somehow free her and take her out of this parasitical hell-hole.

_Maybe this wouldn't be the end._

I barely looked up as the Gamemakers called the two Nine's in, noticing that both looked pretty confident as they strolled into what could be a make-or-break moment in these Games. Though scores essentially meant nothing in the arena, they were often used to provide the pre-game favourites. Those meant nothing however, neither Aleah Armani nor Jules Surket had been favourites before the Games had started and both of them made it to the last two. Nothing was certain, when the Games began; luck mattered just as much as skill. Maybe even more.

So far the various stations covering the Games, (eg. all of them) had a rather typical set of odds for this Game's winner, with favourites consisting of the Career pack, me (the tall, strong, reserved black dude), Sean Armani of Ten, who wasn't much of a surprise given that his twin sister was last year's Victor, and Damian Blackwater of Eight, whom they were making out to be some sort of master thief/ninja hybrid.

I had spent quite a lot of time watching both in training. Blackwater was fast, no doubt about it, but I think I could still take him, if it came to it. Armani… was a harder book to read. He was the tribute that worried me the most. I had assumed he'd be just like his sister: arrogant, cocky and cunning, but… that's not how he came across… I couldn't read the kid, and that worried me. He seemed almost… friendly… I didn't know what to make of it.

_Everything worries me now._

I looked over to him, just as he was called out by one of the Peacekeepers at the door. He stepped up confidently, whispered something to his district partner, causing her to smile, nodded to the guards and strolled in. Within moments there was the unmistakable of a cracking whip. A sound I knew all too well. I slouched in my seat. What was with all the confidence today? Where were the tributes who trembled as they went in, who were so full of nerves that they could barely walk as they went out to impress the Gamemakers.

I glanced at Bianca next to me, and my thoughts softened immediately. She was clearly worried, not much of a surprise since I doubt she's ever used anything that could be considered a weapon back home. She was too slight to be expected to use a scythe during harvest time, more likely to have spent her time working in the orchards that dominated the western part of the district.

"You okay?" I asked her quietly, trying to smile reassuringly.

She glanced up at me and nodded slowly, offering a weak smile in return for my own.

"I think so… just kinda worried, y'know."

I nodded slowly. "Me too. You'll be okay though. Just remember, District Eleven and proud."

She nodded back to me, and her fidgeting lessened somewhat. The girl from Ten went in, Pipper …..Young, these names were proving difficult to remember, but if I was going to kill these people the least they deserved was that I know their names. I resolved to look over the notes I had made on the other tributes as soon as I returned to my room. Ignorance couldn't be tolerated or excused. It would kill me just as easily as any knife or sword.

Who worried me?

I'd like to say I had some sort of list, a plan of tributes I needed to kill before they had the chance to kill me, but the truth was; everyone worried me. From that kid from Six who could use a scythe better than anyone I had ever seen (and as I've already said, I grew up in the agricultural district for crying out loud!), to Drake, whom I had not heard say one single word, to Bianca, my own district partner, who had come across as one of the nicest people I had ever known.

No one could predict what would happen in the Arena. No one knew who'd live or die. Anyone of them could be the person who would shove a sword through my gut, stick a knife in my back, or send a spear through my heart. Only one could win.

_Only one could survive._

I sat up straighter knowing that I would be called up next. My game-plan was set in my mind, I knew exactly what I was going to do, and how I'd do it. I started running over other odds that had been discussed on the television. A couple of stations had picked up on Sade Artois' uncle being the Head Peacekeeper in my district. Some had proposed that Bianca and I would join up with the Careers, using this backstory to gain us some safety. Other, more realistic channels were betting on how long it took me to kill Sade, and vice-versa.

Sadly the odds were better on her killing me. So much for the odds being ever in my favour.

I was woken from my daydreaming when the Peacekeeper by the door announced "ERIC FISKE!"

I stood up slowly, taking my dorak out from beneath my t-shirt and holding it up to the light, so that the smear of blood shone bright red.

_It's time._

I walked in, nodding to the guard as I passed under the threshold, into a room much like the one we had been using for training, only a bit smaller. My dorak hung outside my t-shirt, in complete defiance of my stylist, who had insisted I keep it hidden, declaring that "That horrid thing won't endear you to the Gamemakers."

_Well fuck you Dora. They want Eric Fiske, they get him all. Every fucked-up bit of him._

I walked up to the foot of the Gamemakers stage, where they sat next to a table laden with enough food to feed all of District Eleven for a day. I pulled a crisp salute in front of them.

"Eric Fiske, aged eighteen, of the District Eleven Peacekeeper Auxiliary Corps, Number 070493."

Sure, they had only set us up to guard crops from crows and rabbits, but I'm be damned if I let them forget who I was and where I came from.

I promptly walked over to the weapons table and picked up the sling, along with several of the metal spheres which were used here as ammunition. There was a line of wooden dummies set up across from the Gamemaker's platform, and it was there that I began my session, sending a sphere through the ribs of the first dummy, the left shoulder of the second, the next few through the right hip, stomach, left knee and upper torso, before taking out the last three by bursting their heads open. This led to one rather elderly Gamemaker clapping lightly, though from the manner with which he did so, it was probably meant to be sarcastic. They had clearly seen this all before.

Dropping the sling, I walked back to the weapons table and selected a short sword and, with a smile, a sickle from the huge array of weapons present. Another set of dummies, arranged in a circle, all holding some kind of weapon in their carved hands, quickly caught my eye. I walked into the centre of the circle when, to my surprise, the dummies began to move, circling and feinting towards me, other pulling away before swiftly rushing towards me once again, obviously mounted on some sort of underground track system.

I smiled again and got to work, cutting through the arm of a sword-wielding dummy before spinning around and kicking another off its tracks, burying my sword into its chest as it lay on the ground. I pulled the sword out just in time to decapitate a dummy that had been rushing by me, and then swinging my sickle in a flash of steel, slicing through the cloth on another dummy's exterior, displaying the red underneath, clearly meant to symbolise blood. I took out the next three before throwing my sword at another, in an attempt to gain the Gamemakers' attention, which by some miracle managed to pierce its chest, knocking it to the ground. The last dummy came rushing at me and I leapt at it, dropping my sickle, tackling it to the ground before snapping its neck off with a highly satisfying crunch.

I turned back to the Gamemakers, dropping the wooden head, took a spiked mace off the weapons table and used it to destroy every dummy left in the room but for one line. The mace had been a bit of a risk, I hadn't planned to use it, but there wasn't much skill to it. You swung it, and smashed your target. It didn't require brains, or discipline, or training. Just strength, and strength was something that I had. Eighteen years of collecting the harvest when it was due gives you that. And everyone in District Eleven helped to take in the harvest. Even Scarecrows. It was the single reason behind the existence of our district. I lost myself in a world of flying splinters as I drove the mace through each dummy, imagining each one to be someone I despised, until the red haze faded and I was left in a room filled with the remains of countless dummies.

I abandoned the mace next to a legless corpse of what had once been a dummy, and made my back to weapons table for the grand finale. I had been waiting to do this all day. I picked up the bow and slung a quiver filled with arrows across my shoulders, feeling complete for the first time in days. My mind was racing as I walked up to the last line of dummies, which were also on a hidden track, and began moving as soon as I had taken aim. I glanced back over to the Gamemakers, who at this stage were looking bored, just witnessing another uninspiring tribute. Not a future Victor.

I looked back towards the ten moving dummies, spinning and zig-zagging in front of me. What was unexpected? What would make them remember me? Headshots? Alternating limb hits? Some sort of meaningful pattern of wounds? I smiled as it came to me, and I began to let fly. I was glad that I had practiced with the bow in training, as it reacted quite differently to my own back home, though of course I couldn't have be as open with it in training as I was now, having to hide my skill with it should it serve to make me an even bigger target to other tributes.

But now… now I had nothing to hide. Ten arrows later, each of the ten dummies were still, having stopped moving the second I scored what would have been a killing hit, each having an arrow protruding from….well, a place where no one would want an arrow protruding from. In this case, I'm not entirely sure the shots I landed would have resulted in an immediate death, but life afterwards wouldn't have held much joy. Especially for a man.

I walked back to the Gamemakers platform and nodded, smiling after noticing the watering eyes of the Gamemaker who had previously sarcastically applauded my efforts. I looked back to each Gamemaker in turn, when the one at the end of the table, who all the others had been looking to throughout my "performance", caught my eye. I stood there, breathing heavily after my display, dorak tapping against my chest with each breath. She cocked her head before giving me an almost imperceptible nod and I took that as my cue leave, tossing the bow and quiver back onto the weapons table, carelessly knocking down a rather worrying display of knives. I nodded again to the Peackeeper as I walked out, and murmured "Good look." as I passed Bianca, receiving a small smile for my efforts.

Would they remember me? Maybe. But I was done caring about that now.

_I had more work to do._

Something made me turn back to see Bianca heading through. She was looking more confident then she had been, but I could only wonder what she was going to show to the Gamemakers to make them think she had a chance. She was a sweet girl, kind and trusting, and I couldn't understand how anyone could have voted her into this. Though I bore no ill-feelings towards my district for voting me in, as I was sure Ryne Artois had rigged it, I hated them for what they had done to her.

To be truthful, I suppose I hated all of the Districts for what they had done. I had avoided most of the other tributes, not wanting to hear their stories, not wanting to feel… connected to these poor souls who had been condemned to death by their own people. Even talking to Anya… it made me wonder what was the point? When in every district, people had surrendered their humanity and chose children for, what would inevitably be slaughter… How could we live with ourselves? How could we allow ourselves to be forced into this…this slavery?!

That's what we were though. Slaves. Slaves to the Capitol, to our own cowardice and fear. I now know what I had felt as I paced through my room last night, pacing like a caged animal, for that is exactly what I was. It had been frustration, frustration at a world that couldn't be changed by one person, as the Capitol would crush one person as I would swat a fly. Only a rebellion could end this. One more bloody but more determined than the last one, where honour and defiance remained strong, and wasn't sold out for favour with the Capitol.

_Speaking of selling out for favour…_

I walked back into the waiting room, straight up to Lucian and stood over him, aware of how I towered over him. _Not that it made him any less dangerous._

"Just want you to know Twelve, should something happen to the Career pack, those people who ignored you rather than seeing what a potential asset you would've been, you know, a whisper of steel in the night, that sort of thing, you'd quickly pick up other allies in the Arena."

I stared into his eyes as he processed this information, eyes showing contempt, confusion and possibly a trace of fear until, finally, they filled with understanding. Then possibly contempt again.

I stepped back and began to turn around. "Just wanted you to know."

Could I ally with him? No, not if he killed the Careers. Not that I thought he would. Lucian reminded me of people I had seen in my own district. He would follow the power, and right now, that was with Macaulay. And if they wouldn't take him in, he'd avoid them and take pleasure in taking out the weaker tributes. Until someone put an end to him…

But it was a seed, which I was going to work to nurture. A Career pack, strong and without in-fighting, would spell doom to all the other tributes. If the Career pack didn't fall, then we were all dead.

_And that is something I will not allow to happen._

I needed to make as many tributes as wary of the Careers as possible. I needed other tributes to unite against them, otherwise….otherwise I'd never be able to get to Artois. The Careers _must_ fall.

I frowned as I walked back to our quarters, worried about Bianca; I recalled a conversation I had with Anya yesterday morning, after advising Bianca to visit the Edible Plants training station.

-0-

As Bianca had left to do so, Anya had walked up from behind me, eating an apple.

"Think she has a chance?" she had asked, nodding towards Bianca, straight to the point as always.

I had sighed, and shrugged. "Do any of us? Maybe… if it was a normal year I'd say she could disappear somewhere and hide it out, but… this year's meant to serve as a punishment… They're going to make us suffer," I said, referring to the Gamemakers. "I don't know Anya. I just don't know."

"Think you should have asked her to come with us?"

I stared at her for a moment, before shaking my head. "No, she's better off on her own… What we're going to do… it would only get her killed. I owe her more than that. I voted her in, I don't think I could live with myself if I saw her die."

Anya had nodded and walked off, heading to one of the various stations. I guessed that I should too.

She was definitely safer alone than with us.

_We were going Career hunting._


	31. Betting Odds

And the countdown begins...

* * *

Score guide:

1–3 (under average): a few tributes should be in this range. The ones who don't know what they're doing, don't really care, or mess up really, really, bad.

4–6 (average): most non-careers should be in this area.

7–10 (above average): most careers should be in this spot, with ten being borderline.

11–12 (close to untouchable): you'd have to prove yourselves the best of the best to get one of these scores.

* * *

**Private Training Scores—Galla Cinder (D12 Female)**

**By Gingerclaw**

* * *

"_There's a lot you can learn by shutting up and listening."  
_—_Unknown_

* * *

Noise. It surrounds me. It envelopes me. Light, too. Bright, flashing, lights. During my entire visitation of the Capitol, I shied away from it, trying to hide in the shadows as I usually do, but it is pointless. Here everything is big, bright, and noisy. There simply _is_ no place where I can hide, even in the scant darkness. I am hating my District right now, even more than I did initially. I am hating them and everything else about this cruel, shiny, world.

And it isn't just the sounds and the light—it's the _people._ The Capitol people, with their ridiculous outfits, hairdos, and distortions; my fellow tributes, with the Careers being cocky and confident, the non-Careers being crazy or depressed or both, and then Lucian with his disturbed mind and even more disturbed ideas—all this combined has put me on edge. The next time someone speaks to me, I might just snap their neck. Figuratively, of course. One of the Capitol's dumb rules is "No violence! ... until the Games. Then you can kill anyone you want."

At least my stylist has a grain of sense. After presenting a putrid neon green-yellow dress that was extremely short and forcing me into it, she frowned and decided it "wasn't the right look." I wore the dress for one day, feeling extremely uncomfortable, but thankfully the next day my stylist forced me into an admittedly tight and frilly dress, but it was black and long, which made me happy. I guess this was as good as it was going to get.

Currently, I am in a room with all the other tributes, waiting for the training scores to appear on a huge screen. This is probably not one of the Gamemakers' best ideas. We are already at one another's throats, with the Careers huddled in one big group near the screen that is playing the anthem, laughing and joking, eager for the Games to come; the loner tributes scattered around the room; and the few small alliances that have already been forged sticking together—all of us are glaring at each other, hissing threats under our breaths, and most likely planning each others' deaths.

Except for the Careers, that is. Their environment is calm and relaxed, though they were most likely plotting our demise as well. This year the pack was small, which was odd. They consisted of six Careers rather than last year's eight: the D1 kids, the D2 kids, and the D4 kids. I sort of thought there would be more. I glare at them from my corner. They were so cocky, reveling in the fact that most of them—if not all—would make it to the final eight.

Finally, the anthem ends, and Panem's seal flashes on the screen. After that, I see in big letters the words "DISTRICT ONE" move across the monitor, and then the faces of Canicus Macaulay and Admire Blanchard. After a few seconds, two numbers appear below their names: 10 and 9.

I whistle slowly. Those are impressive scores. Then again, they are Careers. Most of their little pack should score in the 7 and up range. Canicus is tough and intimidating, the perfect Career leader. He doesn't have the same edge as last year's leader, Roy Rosseau, but with the latter being pyromaniac and all, it makes sense.

Admire is quite a flirt. I can tell by the way she moves, tosses her hair, and acts around the boys—but really, it's obvious. Canicus seems to dislike this. Oh, he _acts_ like everything's fine, but he walks stiffly and his smiles are noticeably forced when she does her thing. Another thing about Admire—she's touchy. Whenever one of her Career friends asks her how she is today, she gets defensive and snappy. I figure she has some sort of health problem she's trying to hide.

Any sensible person would be wondering by now about all this inside information I've been giving you about tributes from a District so far away from mine that in all reason I should know nothing about them. Well, any intelligent person who doesn't want folk to know about her and wants to know about everyone else would shut her mouth and listen to the chatter around in the room. Sitting in the shadows and pretending you're not there is a great way to learn about people, as well as a great way for people to not learn about you. I should know, from all those years of faking my lack of existence.

Canicus and Admire's faces fade away, to be replaced by the words "DISTRICT TWO." When that has disappeared, two other faces flash up on the screen: Jet Matthews and Sade Artois. Their respective scores appear, a 9 and an 8. Respectable Career scores. Jet is quite a nutjob, from what I've seen, bloodthirsty and short-tempered. He tries to hide it, but he talks to himself. During our time in the training rooms he showed himself quite the professional with a mace.

Sade seems like your average Career. Confident, strong, good with knives—but then again, so many are. She_ is_ pretty, and from what I've heard she's daddy's little rich girl. In a normal Games, she might be one to watch out for, but in this Quell? I'm more concerned about crazy Jet.

"DISTRICT THREE" jumps forward on the monitor. It hangs there for a second, then the next tributes flash up. I hear a loud scoffing noise from the Careers. Admire.

"Have you _talked_ to that freaky girl?" she asks the boy from Four. "She talks to herself, all the time! And I asked her one time, 'What's your problem? Why do you do that? It's weird.' And then she says, 'Oh, I'm just talking to a dead person! It's my duty as Death's Agent!'" She snorted. "She's crazy!"

I tilt my head in interest. This is something I hadn't heard. I mean, I knew she talked to herself—it was easy enough to notice that—but I hadn't asked myself _why._ I had just shoved her into Jet's category and thought nothing of it. The arena is going to be filled with whackjobs this year, maybe even as many as last year.

From a small cushion beside the Careers, the girl—Maeve Morghal—glares up at them. "I am Death's _Messenger_," she snaps. "His only one. I am here to warn the others when they are going to die."

"'_I am here to warn others when they are going to die!'_" Admire mocks. "Yeah right. You got a _2._ No one with a _2_ is going to be any competition."

I glance up at the screen just as the scores disappear—a 6 for the quarterstaff boy, Brennadon Rydik, and, true enough, a 2 for Maeve, who replies calmly to Admire, "Exactly. I am not here to be competition. I am here to deliver Death's messages."

Next up is District Four, Con Rossencourte and Roulla Saney. Con—I thought that his name was short for something, but apparently it isn't—got an eight. I wasn't surprised by this. He _was_ a Career, after all.

Roulla is cold and distant, and apparently very impressive, as she received a ten. I saw her in the training rooms as we were all preparing. She was very accurate when it came to throwing knives. I shiver. Roulla is not someone I want as my enemy.

That shouldn't be hard. As long as I keep my head down and pretend to not exist, most who would harm me will focus on those who will give them competition.

"DISTRICT FIVE." The boy, Bastian Estatika, is a quiet one who manages to pull a 5. I snort in amusement. D5 gets a 5. All right, it isn't that funny. Five is electricity, so he might be good at wiring things. Maybe he made a little trap? I don't know. He seems okay to me. Keeps to himself for the most part, likes writing in a little journal. He seems like a daydreamer to me. He also seems like a bloodbath death.

The girl gets a 7. I raise an eyebrow at that. She looks pleased about it, and not too surprised. I've heard a few whispers about her—apparently she's been trained. Who cares? I think. So she's trained. I bet half of them are, even if they're not a Career. I don't stand a chance against them. So what I know a few fistfight tricks and had pretty good aim with a vase. They knew more than a few tricks with a sword and have really good aim with a knife. If I came from Seven and knew how to use an axe, I might be a threat. I would know how to fight with an actual weapon. But no, I had to be born in Twelve. Dumb, stupid, dusty, poor, victor-less, training-less Twelve.

I sound like a brat even in my own head, so I make myself focus on the "DISTRICT SIX" that appears next. Edrick Quillheart, the male, is nervous as he waits for his picture and score to pop up on the screen. He stands not five feet away from me, so I can hear his faint sigh of relief as the number "7" appears.

But now, back to D6. The girl, Londyn Aureole, receives an eight. I am quite surprised at that, as she is blind. She was very certain that she made everyone know that, probably to pity her. Londyn creeps me out. At first, she seemed a little odd-looking, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. Then I realized that her eyes—or at least her pupils—were plain black stone. Maybe that is why she's blind. I can't tell. I try to stay away from her.

Here comes District Seven. The boy is called Jonas Emerson. From what I've heard, he's the mayor's son and probably never touched a weapon in his life unlike the typical axe-wielders from Seven—talk about a waste of training!—so I'm startled that he gets a five. Maybe he has some sort of hidden talent he didn't discover until now?

The girl, Alexis Spurling, is rewarded a two. I smirk at that. She's proved herself quite vulnerable due to her extreme paranoia of weapons. Everyone has marked her as an easy kill. Certainly she's going in the bloodbath.

"DISTRICT EIGHT." I quite enjoyed watching the Reapings for this district, what with the girl vomiting all over the escort—I would pay her to do that to Karina, I really would—and a weasel-thing escaping him and going haywire. The boy, Damian Blackwater, is apparently some sort of thief who pulls a 4.

Anya Powers is the girl. She's a homeless drunk who has managed to get some alcohol here in the Capitol. She's drunk right now, in fact. She's lolling in the corner, laughing at the Careers, who are laughing back. I never pictured her as getting an impressive score, and I was right, as she gets a 4 as well.

"DISTRICT NINE" is next. The boy's name is Gabriel Ally-rick Pickleline Donovan. Or something like that. I'm good with names, so I can remember most of the tributes, but this one ... ? No. His name's _far_ too long for me to wrap my mind and tongue around it. He's from the upper class home, and manages to get an upper class score: 7. Double lucky.

Juniper Harris, D9's female, is an unremarkable tribute from and unremarkable district. She does not, however, receive and unremarkable score, only getting one point below her district partner. Not bad, not bad.

Whatever-his-name-is and Juniper's faces disappear, to be replaced by "DISTRICT TEN". The boy, Sean Armani, is, unbelievably, last year's victor's brother. No, not just her brother—her _twin._ Can you believe that? I doubt he got himself voted in on purpose. His district must really have hated him—or his sister—to put them through that twice. I didn't expect him to get a high score, what with little training and all, but he got a 10.

A _10!_ How on earth did he manage to score a 10? Maybe his sister, Aleah, managed to rig the scores so he would get sponsors. Or maybe she'd been training him.

Whatever the answer, I now know to stay away from him. He has a kind face, but that does not mean he is truly kind. He could be like his sister, cruel, vicious and conniving.

The girl, Pipper Young, gets a 3. Well, of course—she's from Ten. By all means everyone who comes after D4 should be getting threes and fours and fives. Not sevens and eights and nines like they are!

The scores fade away, and the District Eleven tributes are next. Erik Fiske scores an 8. I suppose that makes sense. I heard from his district partner that he's a "scarecrow", some sort of civilian Peacekeeper. I didn't know they had those. They don't in Twelve.

The girl, Bianca Neve, seems a rather dull character to me. Armani 2, as I call Sean, once asked her why she was voted in and she spilled out a story about her crush and her nemesis and how her life was horrible, and Armani 2 nodded sympathetically, but really, compared to some, her story wasn't that impressive. She scrapes up a 4.

Finally, my District appears.

I bite my lip, suddenly worried about my score. I ... didn't do so well in my private training session. I fumbled with the knives, trying to throw them at the target. A few hit the dummy; most missed by a mile. The few that made their mark were far from deadly, either hitting with the side or the butt of the knife. I had then moved on to an untouched dummy—there was only one left, as I was the very last—and beat it senseless with my fists. By then, the Gamemakers had basically decided that I wasn't really worth watching, although a few did note something on their clipboards. When my fists grew tired, I stopped and looked toward the ones in charge. A tall, red-haired woman with a baby on her lap smiled at me a completely creepy smile and motioned for me to go. I had nodded and left.

I hold my breath, hoping for the best. Then again, do I really _want_ a good score? Chances are I'm not going to get one. Sure, a good score will gain me sponsors, but it will also make the other tributes remember me. No Capitolite in their right mind would sponsor me, even with a six or a seven! No, I'm better off getting ... say a four. Yes. A four is good enough. Anything much higher will draw unwanted attention, and anything lower will injure my self-esteem.

After what seems like forever, Lucian's face and mine appear on the screen; then, a second later, our scores.

Lucian gets a 7. My eyebrows fly upwards in surprise. How did he do that? Really, how? I have not been privy to his plans, which is understandable, and we really have had not talked to each other since the train. Karina Hellina didn't coach us together—oh, I forgot, she didn't coach us at all, the lazy witch. (While some might us a stronger word to describe their escorts, I find that "witch" actually fits Karina better. She is loud, has a screechy voice, and wears absurd outfits. See what I mean?)

I'm so busy gawping at Lucian's score that I nearly miss my own—and a second later wish that I had.

A _three._ I got a _three._ Now, a four would've been okay, but ... ouch. That hurts. I thought I was better than that.

The anthem begins to play again, in effect dismissing us. Admire from D1 gives a relieved sigh as she stands up and stretches her legs. I rise from my corner-chair and unfold my arms. As I walk, I hear my feet hit the floor in a _thud-thud, thud-thud_ that is comforting somehow ... comforting until I realize that in the arena, it wasn't just me who could hear my footsteps. My enemies could hear it too.

I stop suddenly. How might I place my feet on the ground so they make as little noise as possible? I'm a quiet girl. I'd like to remain a quiet girl. But the only way I can "remain" anything is by winning the Games. So I'd best learn to walk quietly.

Gently, I put one foot down on the hard floor. It makes no sound. I place the second foot down, just as gently. Slowly, I begin to walk back to my room, gradually increasing my speed until I'm walking like I normally would, only quieter.

In a sudden flash, I have a plan for the Games. Well, maybe not a _plan,_ exactly, but definitely the beginnings of. I am quiet, very quiet. If I can learn to walk quietly on Capitol floors, I can learn to walk quietly in a forest. In a desert. In a swamp. It won't even take long.

If step one is being quiet, then step two is staying in the shadows. That shouldn't be hard. I've stayed in the shadows my entire life. I'll hide from the Careers, I'll hide from Lucian, I'll hide from anyone.

Maybe I can even hide from the truth.

Because deep, deep, down, I know the truth. I know I cannot win. These tributes are just too tough. They're too vigorous, they're too smart, they're too strong. There's no way I'll emerge from these Games victorious. Even being quiet, even knowing about them more than they would expect, there's no way I'm going back home—back to Leah.

Leah. This whole crusade in the Capitol I've been trying to forget Leah. She's so small and innocent and young. The only way I'm ever coming back to her is in a casket: pale, cold, and unforgivingly lifeless.

* * *

Score review:

**D1M** Canicus Macaulay (10)

**D1F **Admire Blanchard (9)

**D2M **Jet Matthews (9)

**D2F **Sade Artois (8)

**D3M **Brennadon Rydik (6)

**D3F **Maeve Morghal (2)

**D4M **Con Rossencourte (8)

**D4F **Roulla Saney (10)

**D5M **Bastian Estatika (5)

**D5F **Atalanta Zimmerman (7)

**D6M **Edrick Quillheart (7)

**D6F **Londyn Aureole (8)

**D7M **Jonas Emerson (5)

**D7F **Alexis Spurling (2)

**D8M **Damian Blackwater (4)

**D8F **Anya Powers (4)

**D9M **Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo (7)

**D9F **Juniper Harris (6)

**D10M **Sean Armani (10)

**D10F **Pipper Young (3)

**D11M **Erik Fiske (8)

**D11F **Bianca Neve (4)

**D12M **Lucian Drake (7)

**D12F **Galla Cinder (3)


	32. Guiltless Souls

This was mean to go up last night, but we went to my hubby's grandma's 84th birthday party three hours away after only 3 hours of sleep. We were gone for 14 hours. I got on the computer to upload...and woke up later to hubby taking the computer away to put it up. I fell asleep hugging it XD.

* * *

Jonas Emerson of District 7

Night after Scores by Yelof530

* * *

_What will it take to show you  
That it's not the life it seems?  
I've told you time and time again  
You sing the words  
But don't know what it means_

_-I'm Not Okay (I Promise) _

_by My Chemical Romance_

* * *

I believe at this point, I should insert a deep beginning paragraph about my life and what I'm facing and the Games and my chances of winning. I had a speech planned for you all, a great one, telling my life story and my struggles of being the mayor's son and so on. There were a lot of metaphors too; seriously, people become so poetic when faced with the prospect of death. But it's hard to remember it with Amerida yelling at Alexis at the current moment with a voice louder than my thoughts. Similar to how one would imagine…no, there is no possible way to describe how these Capitol monstrosities sound.

"A three? A stupid three?" Amerida spat. "You had three days to train. You live in District Seven of all places! All you managed to get was a stupid two!"

Alexis cowers as our escort throws the words at her. Red strands of hair (shorter from a mishap during the first styling) hung in her face and she pressed her lips together into a thin line. She stares at the soup before her, one of the only options that didn't require a knife. Amerida surely allowed her true colors as a bitchaholic to fly the moment we entered the train. During the reaping, it was only a category two on the bitchiness scale. It quickly evolved. Now, she was a full blown five. The kind that terrorized small, meek villages and crushed the natives with her obnoxious statements. She was more of a three around me, but to Alexis? It's like the girl had badmouthed Amerida's family. Or worse; said her shoes were totally last month. Oh, the nerve of Alexis! Burn her at the stake! Her and her entire wardrobe! May she feel the pain of the insult to one's fashion choices in the Capitol!

The new escorts always suck. They come in believing they'll be the newest and most fashionable and most famous person in all of Panem with tributes that will surely bring them glory. If she had been hoping for that, she should have applied for District One, Two, or Four. Not Seven. The escort from last year was out of commission due to a bad dose of Botox. Dad told me his face was permanently stuck as he had accidentally sneezed during the treatment. Faces already look totally awkward when your nose crinkles up and eyes squeeze shut when your body prepares you for the impact. Imagine being stuck like that. Knowing the Capitol, it's probably the hottest new trend. Weird Sneezing Face, the second worst facial expression since the Duck Face.

I drum my fingers on the tabletop surface. They move to the side of my chair, up to scratch an itch on my wrist, and then move back onto the table. The four days I've been here, my whole body has been unable to stop moving. I've never been so hyperactive. Never. You do not know how many glass items I have broken thus far. In a strange way, I'm going through withdrawal. The only type of music I've listened to since my arrival into the Capitol was the anthem. You'd understand why I wouldn't be so motivated to start tapping my toe to the rhythm of that shit. When it played, I'd be engulfed in pure rage. Fear, too. A nervous sweat starts in my hands when I think of it. Yeah, they just love to bring forth the fear in us. Tear us apart, piece by piece, until we are nothing but smithereens in their gnarled, overly moisturized hands. The day we arrived, I requested to have a cello brought in. My request has yet to have been answered. No statement of denial. But no acceptance either.

I should probably get back to Amerida tearing into Alexis as that is more interesting than my babble.

The younger girl mumbles something and our blue escort (oh, I'm sorry, the proper term is teal) slams a hand decorated with finely filed nails flat on the table. Alexis jolts her head up, her blue eyes glistening. She's barely holding in the tears threatening to spill over.

"Speak up! Do I have to yell to get you to speak?"

"That's a bit contradictory, don't you think?" I murmur beneath my breath. The corners of our mentor's mouth twitches up and she mumbles her own "Excuse me" while dabbing her lips with a napkin. Amerida doesn't hear me.

"I-I don't like the weapons," Alexis stutters.

"I don't like these shoes; do you think I'm here cowering in fear over it?"

The woman continues on, spraying bits of food as she eats and talks simultaneously, and waves a critical fingernail at the redhead. I awkwardly eat my entrée. If I look the escort in the eye, I'd surely transform into glitter covered stone. Our mentor simply leans on one of her hands, sighing at this exchange, as if she's seen it a billion times. More like a six hundred forty two times, but let's exaggerate for effect. The stylists would typically be joining us with the meal but the two were behind on the interview outfits and wanted to jump to that. I think they're just redoing my clothes since they realized I was a male.

"What do we do now?" I ask Dae softly. She raises an eyebrow.

"You both bombed on the scores." She sighs. Her eyebrows crinkle together and she speaks so only I can hear her. "Sorry, but I can't work much with a three and a five."

I shrug indifferently. "What did you expect? I'm sure I can't beat someone to death with a cello. And in a room full of sharp things, it was a given that Alexis would have a meltdown." I shove a noodle into my mouth, chewing it thoroughly and swallowing before saying, "And I didn't bomb, it was just mediocre."

I bombed worse than the Capitol on District Thirteen. I tried my hand at archery. Maybe if I had several years of practice, which strangely enough was time I did not have, I could have some amount of skill. But I'm no Legolas or Robin Hood or Will Treaty for that matter. In archer humor, not by a long shot.

It didn't help that I made a complete idiot of myself beforehand. Certainly, if I had fire, I'd have been able to the kill the wretched little creature bothering me. Flies are nasty buggers that buzz in your ears and decide to piss you off because they're all like "Heh, dumbass." Then, of course, the dude from District Eight has to be some hot shot and pluck it by its wings like it's nothing. Let's flick it across the table now. Since when do bugs bounce? What kind of bullshit is this? Is everyone in these freaking Games hocked up on steroids? Why won't they share?

"The Capitol doesn't like mediocre," Dae says. "They like good. They like winners."

I allow my fork to clatter to the table and stare at the glistening silverware, scratching at my neck unconsciously. A warped image of my own face stares back. Could that depressed looking guy possibly be me? Mr. Happy-go-lucky Jonas Emerson? "Add that to District Seven's list of things never to happen."

"Don't get me started on lists," Dae huffs, smiling sadly off into the distance. I lean closer to her as if to see this memory bubble she is watching recaps of. She frowns at the closeness and I awkwardly move back to my position with my butt completely in the seat. There's a glint of something in her brown eyes and I cringe at its animosity. Ah, shit, she's going to feast on my soul now and devour my awkwardness. I will my eyes to maintain contact with hers and smile innocently. Instead of snapping my neck like I initially suspected, she smiles warmly. "You truly are something else, Jonas."

"I feel I should be offended by such a statement," I say with a straight face. She's young, only twenty three, but she holds something much older than those years, brought on by a lifetime of horrific experiences witnessed in a few years. "But I shall-AH, FUCK!"

What I had been hoping for was to dramatically slam my fist down on the table. But what I did instead was bring my hand down on the edge of the plate. Of course, in the Capitol, there has to be numerous plates before one occupant on a table and it upends, the entirety of its contents spilling over my lap. The sauce, still steaming, burns my thighs and other beloved parts. I jerk straight to my feet and cause my chair to topple to the floor.

Dae rises, as well as the escort. I look over to Alexis who takes this as her opportunity to escape the malevolent glare of Amerida. She scurries off to her own bedroom with her arms protectively wrapped around her. The distinct click of her door just barely reaches my ears. Gingers taunted by cruel, arrogant escort ladies are the least of my problems, I remind myself. Or more, the burning in my crotch tells me. I grit my teeth as the Avoxes creep forward. Their heads are bowed and they awkwardly begin to wipe up the mess from the floor.

"I should get you to the infirmary," Dae says. I wave the suggestion off, backing away to offer the silent workers space.

"No, I'll be fine. It'll probably be painful to pee for a day but I'll live." People staring at me naked? I've dealt with that enough this week. Alexis's stylist seems like a cool dude but mine is fucking creepy! What dignity does a boy still cling to when he is forced to wear a dress before all of Panem? Surprisingly enough, I don't look very good in a dress. My sisters must have had a field day watching me on the chariots! I excuse myself and rush to my room.

I clean myself up in the bathroom, unchanging and showering quickly. I'm afraid to adjust the temperature in case I was to accidentally burn my flesh off so I simply shiver under the icy cold water gushing from the shower head. Back home, unlike most houses, ours had a shower and bath. There wasn't always hot water, though, on those occasions towards the end of the month. We had the standard knobs. Not these stupid levers and whatnot. I gather enough courage to press a soap button and the supposed 'no tear solution' burns my eyes as it squirts me in the cornea.

This is beyond anything I've ever imagined. What is so difficult about picking up a bottle of soap, squirting it into your hands, and lathering it through your hair? Yeah, my hands are tired, me especially with a full day of school and music lessons. I'm not even like the other people in the district who work in the lumberyard all day. But is it really that difficult?

"It's the Capitol," I laugh to myself. My hands fumble for a towel and I wipe my eyes clean. "They have much more important things to save their energy for." Such as shopping and eating and ordering their Avox slaves around.

Finally dried off and dressed in a basic brown T-shirt, I sink into the exquisite fabrics stretched across my bed. It is so fluffy. Like a bunny or a panda or a chinchilla. When I was twelve, my sister Bellafina had a pet chinchilla. One of the quirks of being the mayor's kid was having strange pets. I'd go on to explain about Mariska's pet tarantula but that may be best left for another day. Or not mentioned at all. But when I was twelve, Dad gave Bellafina a pet chinchilla for her birthday. It was the most annoying thing ever and ate at least three of my homework assignments. Believe it or not, teachers don't buy the whole "The chinchilla ate my homework" spiel, no matter who you are. The thing about chinchillas, if you get them wet, their hair falls out. They're meant to live high up in the mountains, not in a District Seven home with a pubescent teen girl as its owner. Bellafina loved it for a week before she got tired of it and our older sister Veronica, who we call Ronnie, took care of it. Ronnie was always the responsible one. She broke up fights and was usually the one to yell at me and my sister to stop smacking each other with sticks in the backyard. It was always smart to listen to her first before Dad came out and got all high and mighty.

Long story short, Mr. Chinchilla disappeared after Mariska claimed it was sent to Chinchilla camp. Bellafina actually believed the story. No, my younger sister didn't kill it. She sold it to the butcher.

And that is why, to this day, the Emerson family does no buy the exotic squirrel meat from the district butcher.

I laugh at the memory but it carries through the vacant room. It's sad to listen to and I turn over, wrapping myself in the sheets. I bring my hands up to examine. Calluses from long days' playing are drawn across my fingertips. A subtle scar from when I snapped closed my cello case and it caught the fleshy part of my palm peeks through. A drop of water drips along my pinky, following the crevices until it plummets to the sheets. Sitting up, a few more drip down, following along my lifeline. Was it always this short?

I'll tell you, none of the droplets are from my hair.

There's a knock at my door. "Jonas? What's going on in there?" I sniffle away the snot beginning to clog my nostrils and clear the tears away. "Jonas?"

Breathe once, twice, and I smirk reassuringly to myself in the mirror over the dresser. Think of something stupid to say, anything!

"Yes, my lady?" Amerida stands at my door, fingernails tapping against the doorframe. Her lip is curled up the side crudely.

She narrows her eyes, analyzing me. For a moment, I worry she has detected my crying. She opens her mouth but clamps it shut as if changing her mind. If I were Alexis, she'd probably have verbally attacked me by now. By her expression, I know she doesn't care for me much better. "Your request has been approved."

"My what?" It takes a second for it to click in on what she meant and my stomach flutters with excitement. "Oh, really? They said yes?"

Amerida nods, smiling her plastered on smile and gesturing theatrically behind her. "They set it up in the living room space. If you'd like to-?"

"No, I think I'm fine here." I force an indifferent shrug as I close the door. The grin split my face in spite of myself and I open the door again to meet Amerida's puzzled face. "Well, duh, lady!" The nostalgic feelings from before are subdued, replaced my longing to get my hands on an instrument. I shuffle around Amerida and speed through the rooms until I arrive in the living room. The Capitol, who know, they aren't totally bad. If they okayed my request, then there must be some little bit of goodness in their heart.

Yeah, there isn't. But it's fun to pretend.

I'm broken from my sarcastic musings when my eyes fall upon the object. There. There it is.

Slowly, ensuring this wasn't just some trick, I tiptoe towards the cello laid carefully besides an empty wooden chair. I run my fingers along the wooden grains, fascinated. It is nothing like I have ever seen, beyond any instrument ever constructed in the confines of District Seven. Sliding into the seat, I gently take the bow in my right hand. It naturally falls into position. I ease the cello up and ignoring the minor sting from the earlier burns I rest it on my shoulder. It is perfect, down to how the endpin was adjusted for me. I pluck the A string with my left hand and restrain the school girl giggle. It's already tuned, not the slightest bit flat.

"You know, I've heard of your playing," Dae says. She takes a seat across from me on the couch. "But never quite heard the actual thing." Our escort moves back to her seat at the dining room table where she is still daintily picking away at her meal. So _now_ she uses her manners. Alexis is nowhere to be seen. The Avoxes had cleaned my mess. I honestly didn't care at this moment.

"I know it's only been, like, four days," I grin. "But I've missed playing a whole hell of a lot. I don't even know _what_ to play."

"Play how you feel," Dae says. "How are you feeling?"

Anxious, nervous, angry, miserable, rejected. Maybe a minor sensation to use the bathroom. Too many emotions are flourishing in my head. Too much water running through my system. What am I feeling? I ask myself. What am I asking right now?

_Homesick._

That was a strange thought. However, I'm just that. I miss the trees and the way the light streamed through their leaves, acting like curtains for the forest floor. I long for the wooden floors that echo when you walk across them and have perfect sliding power for socks. To be able to stare out my window on the second floor and watch the lawn become alive with darting lights during the summer months, small fireflies me and Mariska would collect in a jar to watch like a nightlight. I desire to see my family again; the whole stubborn lot of them, from my boyish little sister to my nurturing mother and equally nurturing older sister. I even miss Bellafina who seemed pretty happy to have me gone and Father who damned me to this miserable end in the first place. I still love them. I'll always love them. They're my family.

Dae waits patiently. Her hands are fingers laced through each other on her lap and she isn't wearing the typical revealing outfits I've grown accustomed to seeing her in. It's not like I enjoyed the outfits…okay, maybe a little…hey, I'm seventeen. What do you want from my life? Seventeen year olds are curious fellows.

I take in a deep breath, releasing it as a play my first note.

Her brown eyes widen at my choice in song.

I could have easily chosen a more elaborate piece. But that couldn't help the ache in my chest, the longing for District Seven. If you miss District Seven, you'd play a song from District Seven.

So I do. I play it like a lullaby.

The entire room, this entire level of the Training Center goes quiet. Maybe I'm imagining it. About time for my mind to be going astray, isn't it? I'm lost within my own thoughts. Eventually, though, those become null. It's just me and the cello. I inhale and breathe the scent of oak and maple and every other tree indigenous to Seven. My mother is watching me play and my father is up in his home office sorting through papers, keeping the vents open to hear the distant echo. If Ronnie were over, there'd be a mingled scent of freshly baked cookies that makes my mouth water. My other two sisters move about their business but can't resist humming along.

I wonder again, why would the district choose me? Was my father so cruel? He may be unfair but did they truly despise him that much?

Maybe it wasn't just my Father. It was a point they were trying to prove; that the Capitol cannot control them entirely. That they can fight back in small ways. But it's all just the same. They're killing off another person from the district. Another soul who did nothing wrong. How do we win?

We don't. We never win.

We simply survive to see the next day through the bars of our cage.

I finish and find I can finally take in a complete, stable breath. Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Most obvious is Dae, sitting across the coffee table with her eyes shining. Behind her stand our escort who smiles and nods. I'm astounded she can do it at the same time. The Avoxes, too, are standing and watching. They quickly bustle back into their duties, not wanting to be caught lollygagging.

Alexis peeks around the corner that leads to the bedrooms.

"I didn't suck that bad, did I?"

"That's a strange little tune, Jonas," the escort points out. "I've never heard it."

"It's an old District Seven song," Dae says. She lowers her voice. "An old, _banned_ District Seven song."

Oh….

"Banned or not, it's a sweet little melody, if a little dreary." The escort sighs, obviously bored. "How 'bout something lively I can dance to a little?" Amerida suggests. She kicks off her heels and is instantly five inches shorter.

I laugh, nod, and delve into another song much more upbeat and danceable. How am I supposed to know it was banned? It's a song. I know music has had those whole "corruption of the youth" stages but come on. It's music. It's not like listening to it will want me to destroy President Finn or Gamemaker Phoenix. I desire that on my own already. Maybe that's why the districts didn't win the rebellion. They didn't have a zesty battle song to fight to.

Dae is still watching me I realize. She rises and strides to Alexis, resting a hand on her shoulder. The look she casts reads loud and clear.

_Talk. Later._

_-0-_

This talking of later comes much later when Amerida has had a few too many sips of the old bottle. I chuckle at her snores, resting the cello and bow back down where I found it. Hopefully, people will have the sense to be careful around it. That cello has to be worth more than the entirety of District Seven.

My fingers feel a dull sting from the thick strings vibrating against them and I crack my knuckles to relieve the stiffness. It was worth it though. The idea of sleeping in the Capitol bed is a little more tolerable now and the knot in my stomach is that much looser.

Dae stops me in the hall. "How can you possibly have not known the song was banned?"

"My father's mayor. All of the illegal stuff I do is overlooked. No one ever mentioned it to me." The woman is silhouetted in the light coming in from the city. It reaches through the transparent glass and I'm forced to squint to find my mentor's face. "I don't know the words. Just the rhythm, the melody. I don't remember where it's from, I just know."

"Yes, I see that." She sighs. "It hit a sore spot, is all. Watching the tributes come in every year, it doesn't get any easier."

"Especially since none of them have exactly won." I regret the words as soon as I say them. Dae sighs again, agreeing with me any way. I sense her hurt, still, as it certainly is hard to discuss. "How would it hit a sore spot?"

Dae pauses but continues on, ignoring my question. "I think it'd be more painful watching them come back knowing I helped prolong the torture."

Those were not exactly comforting words.

Before I could ask what she meant, Dae waves goodnight and goes off to her own bedroom. I walk to my own. Lying across the bed, I can still taste the salty tears on the sheets from earlier.

_-0-_

When you drink a lot of water, your bladder tends to be filled to the point where, when that sensation kicks in, you run your boy ass to that bathroom.

A clatter of the toilet seat and a sigh of relief later, I flush and lower the lid back down. It's a force of habit that occurs when your sisters conspire and retaliate by laying saran wrap over the bowl. You only make that mistake once. Once.

If you haven't been able to tell, my sisters, especially Mariska, abuse me quite often. I'm telling you, estrogen riddled mad house. I smile, though, at the memory. Despite being my sister and younger than me by two years, Mariska was my best friend. It's kind of sad but most kids in the district avoided us like the plague. Ronnie and Bellafina could shake off the label better. Ronnie was naturally sweet and open. Bellafina was open in other definitions of the word. But I was all Mayor Emerson ever talked about and, Mayor's daughter or not, Mariska was abrasive, snide, and served a mean can of ass whooping. We know each other better than anyone else.

Washing my hands, I stumble back to bed. Everything in the Training Center is quiet, except for the faint rustling of my sheets as I crawl under the covers. I reposition myself and that is when I hear it; a feeble whimper. Amazing, how I can actually detect it. It couldn't possibly be real, my imagination or a dream acting up as my eyes aren't fully fluttering shut.

Then there's something else. I squeeze my eyes shut and hone my ears in. Huh. A disturbance in the force.

My curiosity beats out that sense of "Hey, Jerkoff, don't be a dumbass and follow strange noises you hear in the middle of the night!" and I ease open my bedroom door. I peek around the corner and catch the sight of a girl walking down the hallway. By the mass of red hair, it could only possibly be Alexis.

What is she doing up? Why am I asking myself that question instead of investigating?

She's heading to the balcony, I conclude. Probably just needs some air. It is a little stuffy in the rooms. I figure I might as well join her.

I dash back into my room real quickly and slide my slippers on (I'm certain they were meant for Amerida but, bitch, they're fluffy, they're mine). The doors to the balcony are wide open and I shuffle along, the sound of my slippers barely audible as they scrape along the carpet.

A breeze picks up outside. Alexis is standing by the railings. I peer closer.

She isn't standing _by_ them. She's sitting _on_ them. Her legs dangling precariously over the side and hands up to support herself, she eases herself down the other side.

Great. My district partner turned suicidal.

I rush forward through the double doors and grab her around the waist before she moves another inch.

"Hey!" I yell, struggling as I try to haul her back onto the balcony. Alexis screams, short and sharp, in surprise. She inhales deeply and screams, thrashing about with wide crazy swings of her arms.

"No, put me down!" she screeches. I feel a burning sting from under my left eye to my chin and grunt at the pain. We yell incoherent threats and blurbs at each other that, from an outsider's point of view, may have been seen as kind of funny. These were one of the times I regretted not being one of those muscled types. Alexis throttles her head backwards and my nose discovers her skull is quite durable. She kicks at the air as I'm able to hold her body up, dropping her down on the floor of the balcony. I avoid the fists flying from Alexis's fit, pin her arms to the side of her body, and awkwardly sit on her legs.

She's still screaming when I bark, "Stop it!"

"Let go of me!" she demands.

"If you want to go on some suicide mission, save it for the arena. Not now." Alexis wiggles beneath my hold.

"I w-wasn't trying to k-k-kill myself!" she snaps. "I was trying to go home." Quaking breaths rattle through her body as sobs work their way up through her.

"There's only two ways for that to happen, sweetheart," I say. I bite my tongue, choking off the rest of the sentence. Two ways, I think ruefully. As a Victor or in a box.

I don't need to finish the line for Alexis to know what I meant. Standing up, I offer her a hand and help Alexis to her feet. She sniffles, wiping the tears away with her sleeve. "I wanted to go home, back to District Seven. It's not perfect but…but it's…"

Suddenly, feet thunder down the hallway. Alexis ducks behind me and I straighten my posture as Dae, thrown together in a robe, bursts through. I raise my hands in a gesture to calm her.

"We're fine," I say. "Just a little misunderstanding."

Amerida pokes her nose around from behind Dae and I smirk at the green paste smeared across her skin. Dae breathes slowly, straining herself out. "Screaming is a result of a misunderstanding?"

I nod. "Absolutely."

Dae steps forward, touching my cheek. When she pulls back, her fingers are colored black. Or is that red….

"You're bleeding."

I press my hand to my face and feel the sticky liquid seep from four thin, shallow lines in my face, right where Alexis scratched me. "So I am. Huh, now is that a bad thing?"

Amerida, looking as if she'd just been woken from the dead, glares at us both. "Yes, you imbecile, bleeding is a bad thing. Bad things happen when you bleed."

"You don't say?" I smirk. She looks just about ready to grab me by the collar and throw me over the edge of the balcony herself. Dae sighs yet again, keeping herself from slamming her palm up into her forehead.

"We should get you to the infirmary." Amerida is already glaring daggers over my shoulder to the redhead behind me as I'm about to be taken out of this loop.

Before she can get a firm grip on my wrist, I wave Dae off. "Oh, I'll be fine. My face is plenty screwed up on its own." I drive this point home by smiling broadly with my eyes widened until they are bulging from my sockets.

"You're not _that_ bad looking," Amerida says. Gee, thanks, lady, for putting my District ugliness as only minor. "If you moisturized your skin a little more and stopped scratching at it, you'd look so much better. And maybe grew that hair out to show those adorable curls, oh, go blonde! " She reaches up to rustle my hair but I flinch back. Alexis skitters out of the way and I end up stumbling into the rail. Amerida screeches "Watch!"

"He won't fall off," Dae states simply. I nod. Taking off my slipper, I chuck it hard over the end. A second passes and I duck down, jerking Alexis down with me by her shoulder. The slipper soars over our heads, going, going, going… and slapping Amerida directly in the face. I swear her skin heats up so angrily that the facial cream begins to bubble. If anything, she looks fairly pissed. Alexis's lip wobbles at the sight of the slipper. Her last chance effort to escape, foiled by the fluffy footwear.

Dae raises a hand to keep the woman from tearing our heads off. I grin sarcastically with my two front teeth balanced on the bottom two and I rise to my feet, dusting myself off.

"How about I just don't ask what exactly happened and clean you up in the bathroom?"

"I'll clean," Alexis pipes up. "Since, I, um, caused it."

Amerida snorts derisively and I grimace back at the woman. I've dealt with bitches worse than her in my lifetime. I'll surely deal with a lot bitchier.

Dae hands us a first aid kit and I follow Alexis to her bathroom. Her room is just like mine, only a few little items and decorations out of place. The light clicks on, blinding me momentarily, but I'm finally able to assess the damage. Damn, she certainly did a number. It isn't too bad but enough that it broke the skin. Red lines are etched into my skin, showing the nails' path.

I sit on the closed while Alexis runs a towel under cold water. Her skin is pale, but not an unhealthy shade. The same goes for her thin frame. I've seen some of the lower class people of District Seven. Their eyes are sunken in and faces overall are gaunt. I've never once had to worry about hunger or if I had a place to sleep for the night.

"Here," I offer my hand out. "I'll do it. Get out the antiseptic wipes." Timidly, Alexis passes me the towel. It stings momentarily and when I pull back, there are traces of red in the moist fabric. The sensation intensifies as I apply the wipes and I groan slightly. Alexis averts her gaze.

"Better than the wonderful Capitol and their delightful Games," I say finally. "Yeah, I understand that."

She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. "Huh?"

"What you said before, about wanting to go home; I understand that. I'm missing my family like crazy." I drag my palm along my cheek to dry it. "My sisters, my mom, my dad," I catch the fierce light that dances through Alexis's eyes at the mention of Mayor Emerson, "even dear old Bentley. He crafts the instruments in the district." We sit in awkward silence, one I keep filled with the crinkle of paper as I carefully wrap the wipes back up and toss them away in the trash.

"It's just…I can't take it. All those weapons, all these people…" Alexis trails off. I note how her hands tighten into fists. "It's not fair! I just want to be home, in my own bed, with my own family."

I nod sympathetically. Strange, I'm keeping together to keep her calm, yet I'm facing the same fate. What can I say, mimicking composure is my forte. Alexis's meltdowns were worrisome, though. The lines in my face are proof. And the bite marks in another guy. And that poor training dummy….

"Life is never fair," I state. "You know, life's a bitch, and then you die." Alexis doesn't meet my gaze, instead furrows her brows while staring at the tile floor. I drum my fingers on the countertop, waiting for a response. "It'll be best if you probably got everything out right now. At least one of us will be dead in less than a week." A pang of shame hits me, and I force myself to stare over the city. That was harsh.

"Just…" Alexis avoids my gaze "…this isn't meant to be mean and I'm sorry but when has life ever been unfair for you? You live in a big house and you never need to worry if you're going to be hungry. You have your parents and all your siblings. You can spend money on nice things like instruments. And you don't have to work in the lumberyard with all those awful…" she chokes on a sob, "axes."

After a long enough gap of silence, she raises her eyes to meet mine. I tap my chin quizzically. "Good question, my dear ginger." It only hits me then; have yet to make one ginger joke. Wha-what is wrong with me? Am I losing my touch here? Open opportunity, right there the whole time! That barely counts as a joke before. Dear Panem…gah, sorry, back to my dialogue. "One that'd you only understand if you were to be offspring of a mayor."

You'd only understand if you were forced to sit by yourself during lunch since you were ten because the other kids' parents said not to sit next to you. You'd understand if you were locked into the boy's restroom and had to pound against the door like an idiot for two hours when you were twelve. If you were to walk home by yourself every day. If you were forced to pretend your life was totally fair because you were the mayor's son.

Pretending until the moment I die.

I grin sadly down at Alexis. "I guess you could say my life is too fair at times." I glance down and see that my knuckles are a chalk white color from gripping the sink's edge so tight.

She bites her lip. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

I wave it off. "It's alright. It's nice that someone asked for once." My smile switches over to a smirk. "I guess I just haven't figured out how to respond appropriately."

I keep myself busy by packing away each item in the first aid kit. Alexis stares down at the tiles.

Life hasn't been fair to her either. I know how her brother died. It affected a lot of things in the district, how people handled axes, how they were distributed, to my father and his laws. If I lost any one of my sisters, I'd be a complete wreck. Alexis's fears came from a worthy source. But she shouldn't live like this. No one should live like this.

"Hey," I say. Her eyes dart up to me and I force her to retain eye contact with me. "You need to get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us."

"Yeah," she whispers. "A whole day with Amerida."

I snort scathingly at the mention of the woman. "I know what you mean. Well, not wholly," I add a wink with this statement, "but you shouldn't let her push you around so much. She doesn't know who she's dealing with."

Alexis laughs nervously. "Yeah."

I walk to the door, tipping two of my fingers in a sarcastic salute, a habit I find hard of breaking. "Oh, and next time Amerida makes a comment about her shoes like that; just go District Eight chick all over them. Like," I gesture broadly, motioning from my mouth outwards, "all over. Go for it."

Alexis chuckles and it's a natural sound that makes me smile too. I love making people laugh. I'm surprised Alexis even knows how. "Thanks, Jonas."

"No prob. Just don't kill me in the arena. I won't kill you, if that sounds fair."

"Like an alliance?" Her tone is hopeful. I pause in thought.

"Yeah, exactly like that." I stick my hand out. "Allies."

She shakes back and we exchange the evening's goodnight. I hesitate before walking to my room. I formed an alliance. With Alexis. I gnaw on my lip, reflecting on the thought. She's nice enough and trusting enough. Both of us would be in over our heads if we actually believed we stood a chance. But…we'll go down fighting and last a little longer than the bloodbath. The chances increased, so slightly, in our favor. You can never be too sure. Maybe the arena was full of fluffy pillows (as in not sharp objects that caused Alexis to freak out) we had to smother people with. Or maybe whoever dies first will be revived as a super badass robot. I laugh. Yeah, just keep telling yourself this, Jonas. I need to clear my head…think about all this….

Turning, I walk back to the living room and find the cello exactly where I left it. I take it with me and carefully close the bedroom door once I reach my headquarters. One of the Avoxes stands over my bed and at my arrival quickly fixes the sheets, keeping his head bowed, and scurries out of the room. He's young, with hair shortened to nearly his scalp. Probably a couple of years older than me. I ponder, for a moment, what unjust deed he had done to be forced to live a life of silent solitude.

I take a spot at the windowsill and quietly pull my bow across the strings. The sound is rich and makes me smile. Softly, I play, starting with something slow and melancholy.

Tears slide down my face in a similar fashion. I hiccup, stopping to wipe my face clear. The flesh stings, as it was where Alexis scratched me. I struggle to play, my hands shaking.

I lied to Dae. I did know the words to that song. A musician knows every aspect to his music. I only ever needed to hear it once to know it.

The trembling subsides. I breathe through my nose, in, out. I play the last line.

"_This isn't how it was meant to be,"_ I sing softly to myself. _"Not in a box to bury me_."

Not much later, I lay the instrument down and crawl into bed.

District Seven voted for me as an act of silent rebellion. I'm not my father though, I'm not the Capitol. If it's rebellion what they want, it's the pitiful rebellion of some Mayor's sarcastic cello-playing son they'll get.

**Yelof530's A/N: For those who didn't pick it up, the "Banned Song" is that from the 24****th**** Hunger Games and from Nina's (Phoenix Refrain) story about Johanna Mason-The Phoenix: Burning Day. I have a ball writing for Jonas and thank you all for reading, reviewing, and enjoying the story.**


	33. Constellations

**So just to let you know, the official LAUNCH chapter is on Halloween. It'll be posted after Trick-or-Treating since I'll be taking my niece. So settle down and prepare to hear launch from the perspective of our resident pyschopath. XD**

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**"****_There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time. Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist?  
― Don DeLillo, Cosmopolis_**

**_ Londyn Auerole of District 6_**

**_Interview Preparation and Backstage by 1Styx and Stones1_**

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Want to hear something funny?

In the past hour, I seem to have developed a truly paralyzing case of Aichmophobia . . . The punch line?

Yeah, Aichmophobia is the fear of needles.

And now you see why I'm laughing.

Nobody else gets the joke. Instead they scold me harshly: "Stay still!" "Quiet down!" "Do you want me to poke your eye out?"

I try to explain that such an action would be entirely redundant, but I can't seem to choke the words out between my giggles. There are cold, alien hands touching my bare body with a brisk, sterile precision that does not seem to correlate with the high-pitched, fluttery voices that titter and tut at my eternity of flaws, all laid bare for the stylists to see.

Maybe it's not the needles and tweezers digging into my naked skin that terrifies me, I muse through my tautly hysterical mirth, so much as the complete lack of control I have over the situation.

At home, I knew exactly how many stars I could burn into my solar system, how many needles I could jab into my arm, before the sounds and lights fizzled into unconsciousness. I mapped out each puncture on my arm so that it coincided with an actual star in the sky I couldn't see.

But now the technicians are mindlessly stripping my skin of hair and scars and personality, shelling me like corn from its husk, and I can only lie on the cold metal of the stylist's chair - naked, sightless, terrified - and flinch each time the foreign utensils burn icy against my skin.

In spite of everything that is to come, I don't think I've ever been more fearful in my life. And even this is just _so _bitterly _funny_ that I can't help but laugh.

There is a silent movement of air that accompanies the automatic doors, and I hear the decisive, muted stride of my stylist - Olanna - cross the floor and come to a halt directly in front of me. I imagine she is cocking her head, surveying me with critical eyes and pursed lips.

"You're going to give yourself laugh-lines, _sweetie_," she says reprimandingly, with true acidity dripping from the term of endearment.

And then the giggles are bubbling over and swelling into actual laughter, because with the prospect of the arena looming before me and the symptoms of withdrawal already dulling my senses, laugh lines are absolutely rock bottom on my list of priorities.

"She's been like this for hours now," the effeminate man stylist, the one who has ticklish feathers growing in place of his fingernails, says sourly. "She's giving _us _wrinkles, Olanna - _frown wrinkles_!"

The horror in his voice is entirely real. My mirth escalates even further. I can't breathe and my skin is burning under the icy air conditioning of the room.

"Give her a sedative," Olanna says decisively, flicking me brusquely on the nose with a jewel-encrusted forefinger. "Maybe two."

My hands eagerly, desperately fumble for the silvery-cold syringe that is procured. "Let me," I beg. The reptile-scaled hands retract, and I nearly cry in relief at the familiar sting of needle on flesh.

The effect is instantaneous; giggles deaden in the air, and I fall back onto the seat as I exhale, feeling the artificial life-blood coursing through my veins like liquid salvation. The dulled throbbing in my head settles as my thoughts turn lucid once more.

"That's better," says Olanna in satisfaction. She perches on the edge of the chair, near my bare ankles, and takes a crystal nail file to my big toe.

I think back to the first terrifying night of preparation for the chariot ride, where I'd lain, paralyzed with fear, until Gran's words has come back to me: " _…the secret to getting ahead in life is a good hairdresser and a daily vitamin supplement, you hear?"_

Gran had a lot of secrets to getting ahead in life - monogrammed on ornamental pillows and engraved on picture frames and wall plaques. (Apparently she had also had a choice few tattooed on her back as a young woman as well, but these I was never allowed to see.)

I never knew why she was so intent on cataloging her life's successes and secrets, both through inscription and oral tradition. Perhaps she knew what was coming - the nightmares, the delusions, the missing memories. Gran was always perceptive that way.

For example, one of my earliest memories - perhaps the first thing I can remember - is sitting beside her on the piano bench, so young that my feet did not even reach the floor, marching sulky fingers up and down the ivory steps in perpetual, tedious scales.

I had complained, because even then I was determined to do things my own way, and because even then there was music in my mind, soaring notes anchored by broadened chords, that I longed to play. I would never be able to read sheet music; but then, I had no use for the tired compositions of others anyway. The music I heard in the visual wasteland of my mind was far greater than anything inscribed in Gran's tattered, musty old composition books.

But Gran would simply rap at my knuckles with her lengthy fingernails and say primly, "The secret to getting ahead in life, my star, is to learn to appreciate the subtleties of a foundation. Unless you do so, you will end up, uneducated and unmotivated, on a reality series about drunken teens from New Jersey."

I didn't know what New Jersey was. I didn't know yet what drunkenness was, although I had already learned to recognize the quavery sweetness of it on mother's breath. I didn't know that Gran, already in the early stages of dementia, had discerned my fate from the stars in her oddly disjointed way.

Mother died a few months later. Daddy sent me to live with Gran while he coped with the loss. And we see where I inherited my total, staggering selflessness from.

Gran was stern and poised, dignified and erect and always astonishingly put together. Her house was eclectic - scattered with maps of the universe and posters of scantily-clad musicians and tide-smoothed seashells and rainbows of smoothly-textured pills that Gran systematically refused to swallow - and yet she, and later I, knew how to navigate its every treasure trove.

But Gran forgot.

That was when I started swallowing the pills, because the doctors said that if Gran didn't accept treatment they would relocate her to a home for the wealthy senile. Gran didn't listen. She didn't hear so good by then, didn't even rap at my knuckles when my clumsy pre-adolescent fingers plunked out a false note anymore.

It was hard to communicate with her once she began to lose the one sense I relied on more than anything to keep in touch with the world, but I loved her and Gran loved me, too. When she remembered who I was, I mean. And life without Gran would be like life without music or life without the knowledge of the existence of the stars - unfathomable and meaningless. I couldn't let the doctors - they were all friends of Daddy's, wouldn't you know - take her away.

So I started swallowing the pills for her.

And, oh, it was beautiful, because I could taste their colors on my tongue, so bright that I could almost see. Gran's doctors said the pills helped her to remember, but the pills helped _me_ to forget.

On the day that Gran moved to the Home, I went on a treasure hunt, unearthing every capsule of the magic dust that I could find. I filled a jam jar with the discarded medicine. It rattled in my bag as Daddy led me away from the stately old house with the piano. I slid the needle and its corresponding bottle of medicinal fluid into the hollow tube of a rolled-up map of the stars that had hung in my room.

Gran forgot everything else, but she never forgot the rules. And I'll be damned if the same doesn't go for me.

So I found and befriended my 'good hairdresser.'

Olanna had not been friendly, exactly, but she was more than willing to inform me of the latest, most scandalous Capitol gossip - how thirty-three people had died at a 'thrilling' party the week before from alcohol poisoning, how Aleah Armani's twin brother had been reaped - and as soon as she'd discovered I was actually willing to listen, she warmed right up.

"So," says Olanna, working busily at rounding my big toenail to a geometrically-correct curve. As if anyone will be scrutinizing the precise circumference of my toenail onstage. "I presume, from your training numbers, that the butterfly thing worked out?"

As she'd prepared me for the chariot parade, Olanna had lamented for hours on how absolutely, utterly _generic _my provocative nurse's costume was, especially in comparison to her original idea for my chariot outfit - a short, white dress covered, from hem to neckline, in living butterflies that resembled all the brilliant, gaudy colors of the pills I was so well acquainted with.

As I'd run my finger over the filmy, living surface of my dress, I had duly agreed sympathetically with Olanna - and then made a proposition.

After the chariot parade had drawn to its close, Olanna had collected the rainbow of living butterflies from the rejected gown and secured them in a small jar that she then had someone hide in the training room the night before the private training session. Upon entering the freezing gaze of the Gamemakers, I'd snatched up a handful of stiletto throwing knives, unleashed the butterflies, and closed my eyes.

I remember the stillness that filled the room after the whirlwind of fluttering wings had been abruptly silenced, and I nod. "Oh, yes."

Perhaps a high score in training contradicted the whole angle I had established with my mentor, a girl my own age with a deadpan voice and very little of interest to say, as the poor little blind girl who really didn't stand a chance at all. But I needed someone to know that I stood a particle of a chance, even if it was only to reassure myself.

I had never really trained, save for a couple useless hours over the length of the years to satisfy Daddy, but Gran had been an avid fan of some old-fashioned game called 'darts,' and so the two of us had spent many a night throwing small, metal-tipped arrows at a circular piece of corkboard.

I had always been fairly adept, and after a couple of years I had even begun to surpass Gran in skill. (She had never appreciated this, defying one of her many secrets of life - _acknowledge the skills which surpass your own and learn from them_ - and often remaining cranky for the rest of the evening after my victory.)

Gran had, often begrudgingly, attributed my uncanny knack for projectile to my fine-tuned sense of hearing, which I had always relied on to survive on an every-day basis. In the arena, it would be the same case, surviving in a very real sense indeed.

Now I can hear the smile in Olanna's voice as she chirps, "I've always said that a good, formal ensemble is as deadly as any poison, haven't I, girls?"

The females and the effeminate male chorus an affirmative as they continue to scurry about. The sensation of their primping, while odd, is no longer quite so frightening now that there are drugs in my system.

"Now just wait until you see what I've cooked up for you tonight."

Then I am being enveloped in a richly luxurious dress that is the feel - and the color, apparently - of the midnight sky. It is studded with millions and millions of miniscule gemstones. I trace them with my fingers and smile at the familiar, ethereal patterns that take shape. _The stars._

Next they swoop my coppery hair, for once devoid of all tangles, into a braided coronet across the top of my head and scatter the entire 'do with the same miniature diamonds that Olanna is busily dotting my arms with, simultaneously disguising and glorifying their scarred solar system.

Eventually they draw back. "Well," says reptile-woman begrudgingly, "I don't know about beautiful, but the girl's got some legs on her."

"Well that's reassuring," I retort, having recovered sufficiently enough to attempt some feeble sarcasm.

They don't deign to respond, merely rush me along at a pace that is truly reckless, considering the height of my heels. The dulled murmur of the crowd swells as we arrive backstage, until I am entirely disoriented by the encompassing waves of sound.

Before I enter the whispering madness of backstage, Olanna draws me aside to slip something cold and cylindrical into my hand. My pulse rate ignites in anticipation and recognition.

"Doggy bag," she says crisply. "And before you get excited, I counted them out. There's no way you can off yourself on such a small dosage. Now see that you're lucid for the interview. You're wearing my best work, and I do _not _want its beauty diminished by your crude behavior."

I try to suppress my excitement, feigning boredom. "I don't know if this'll last me 'til the launch," I tell my stylist. "I could do with an industrial-sized jar, if you've got one."

She laughs, and I do, too. _Damn it. That was _not _meant as a joke_, I think sourly as Olanna's staccato footsteps fade away.

It is not exactly a surprise to discover that my dress does not, alas, have pockets. In fact, it seems to have been made during a fabric shortage, as there is hardly enough material to cover my person, let alone supply me with a handy storing place for illegal contraband. So I simply tuck the slim container of pills beneath the dip in my sweetheart neckline.

The cool glass jar settles against my heart - just another instance of the irony that has been cropping up today, like acne on Tanner's face. I crack a smile, steel myself, and mince into the room, attempting to muffle the imperious click of my heels so as not to draw attention to myself.

I nearly stumble over several pieces of sound tech, _do _stumble over at least two pairs of feet, and end up pitching, head-first, into an unforgiving, not to mention _absurdly _bony, shoulder. So much for being inconspicuous.

"Ow! Damn it," I hiss, and then bite my tongue. _Good start, Londyn. You've now established yourself as nothing but a foul-mouthed klutz. Well done indeed. _"I'm so sorry!" I hurriedly squeak, attempting to back away and merely succeeding in stumbling into somebody else. "_Sorry!"_

A hand finds my elbow, forcibly preventing me from toppling to the floor. "It's fine."

It's the girl from District Four, judging from the oddly robotic inflections in her tone, precisely controlled and almost completely free of emotion. Roulla's hand lingers on my elbow for a moment as I gather myself, steadying me.

Thanks," I murmur.

I am tempted, having thoroughly humiliated and called attention to myself, to scurry away before my self-control withers and dies. Maybe _Poor, Blind Londyn_ benefits from the pity and scorn being directed my way, but _Angry, Screwed-Up Londyn _has never been good at accepting compliments _or_ sympathy.

But I suppose this is as good a chance as any to get the fake tears flowing for my performance ahead, so I blink my eyelashes for show and say in my most potently pitiful voice, "It's just- it's just so disorienting, all this sound!" I keep my voice high and innocent, my eyes wide. "And everything is so crowded and bustling! I don't know how I'm ever going to find my way to the stage through all this hubbub!"

There's a minute of quiet and I wait, wondering if I laid my 'pity me' façade on a bit too thick, but then Roulla offers, "Would you like me to accompany you to somewhere more secluded? To ensure you don't lose your way?"

I have to check the smirk that begins to form, instead pulling the sides of my lips up into what I hope is as sincere and sweet a smile as I can muster. "Oh, could you?" I gasp in false ecstasies. "That would literally save my life! My stylist would have killed me if I'd somehow managed to break a precious fingernail by accidentally stabbing some big-shot Career's eye out while floundering around backstage!"

Another pause. I wonder if I should have stuck to diminutive and frightened, rather than let an edge of my natural sarcasm seep into my act. This girl is, after all, from a Career district.

Then Roulla answers, "I doubt she would have anything left to kill by the time the Career whose eye you stabbed was done with you."

I giggle, deflating slightly in relief, and offer my elbow. "Well then I consider you my savior. Lead away!"

She takes my arm in her hand and carefully leads me through the throng of bodies, our high heels clicking along with us in a two-part rhythm. Finally she pauses, and I do, too. "How is this?"

I feel with my fingers along the edge where two brick walls meet. A corner. Cool and quiet and fairly secluded, if the sudden decrease in noise is anything to judge by.

_Wide eyes, sweet smile, sincere voice… _"This is _perfect_. Thank you _so much_." I pause, mentally gauging my next words. _Could be risky, but if I'm right…_ "I know," I continue breathily, "that Careers are supposed to be… cruel and heartless. But- but I don't believe that you could be quite so bad after all."

Another smile. Another subtle batting of lashes. My dress is beginning to slip down my chest, and I attempt to nonchalantly yank it back into position. Roulla breathes out loudly. I can feel the pulse in her wrist against my arm before she releases it.

"I am a Career," she says finally, stiffly.

I close my eyes and mentally berate myself for tacking on those last two sentences. "Yes, of course," I agree at last, readjust my dress once more. "Thank you all the same."

She makes a noise as if she is considering saying something more, but the last I hear is the click of her shoes fading away.

I find the wall and skim my fingers along it, then slide down to my knees. My dress rides up uncomfortably, and I have to scramble to rearrange the fabric and preserve what little modesty I have retained.

Here it is a bit more quiet, and I take advantage of my moment of solitude to crack into Olanna's generous donation, unceremoniously rooting about beneath my neckline to unearth the small bottle of pills. My stylist was right; I need to be lucid if I'm intent on selling my act. The Roulla Incident is a prime example of what happens when withdrawal dulls my nerves.

My fingertips buzz in anticipation as I fiddle with the stupid child-prevention cap, probably breaking at least two of my meticulously groomed fingernails before I manage to open the bottle. I grin slightly when I think about how appalled Olanna would be.

I take a minute to relish the waxy-smooth surface of the capsules, sifting them through splayed fingers and wondering what color the pills are, what colors they will paint behind closed eyelids. With the practiced skill of the daughter of a pharmaceutical mogul and the starved adoration of a drug addict, I mentally gauge the ratio of my body mass and the number of pills in my hand.

Olanna was right, it seems; there are barely enough pills from which to get sufficiently high, let alone kill myself.

Not that I'm planning on killing myself.

Honestly, if I'd had no actual desire to keep living my tumultuous, screw-up of a life, I wouldn't have bothered with the whole 'I'm blind, pity me' façade, which is truly more monotonous even than running scales on the piano. I would've run my mouth and told the Careers just what a bunch of pompous, overgrown playground bullies they really are.

But the thing is, I want to live.

Maybe my life is pointless. And maybe there are people here who have full, happy, meaningful lives, people who deserve live far more than I do.

I can hear them around me as I skulk in the seclusion of my darkened corner where I can pretend I'm watching the stars. They're breathing tautly, chattering anxiously, shuffling feet and tapping fingernails as the fear worms in their gut.

I block out the sounds of these soon-to-be corpses and carefully replace all but three of the tablets, trying not to wonder at the fact that this throng of _life _will soon be silenced. All but one.

My throat is suddenly incredibly tight, and I nearly choke as I swallow one, two, three pills dry.

I was named after the city of London. And it's always maybe terrified me a little bit, because it was a real, living, moving place that was crowded with people and colors and sounds and lives. And now it is nothing more than a scent of ash on the wind, long since dissipated by the time it reaches District Six.

That is not going to be me.

Because I'm only sixteen and I'm alive and sometimes I see colors when the needle plunges into my veins, and _I want to live._

I've always been that brat. The girl who threw temper tantrums and stole toys from the other kids and talked back to adults, the girl who never got in trouble because she was _disabled_, _poor thing_.

The girl who sits on the rooftop and laughs and flicks cigarette ashes at the work-worn bodies stumbling their way home from a long day's work to a too-small home filled with too many hungry stomachs and plaintive mouths, the girl who goes home to the huge home and the cupboard full of food and the grand piano and still finds something to snark about.

And I know that's who I am, because even if I can't physically look in a mirror at my reflection, I am certainly capable of introspection.

Maybe I even hate myself a little bit, sometimes. Maybe that's why I relish the way everything blurs and slurs and jolts out of proportion when I pump myself full of foreign substances that promise a brief instant of entertainment, a lifetime of addiction, an eternity of death come too soon.

Or maybe I live the way I do because it works for me.

It works for me, - for the girl whose mother loved liquor more than she loved her only daughter, for the girl whose father loved his screwed-up wife more than he loved his mother-less daughter, for the grandmother who loved her granddaughter more than anything else in the world and still forgot her, just like everything else.

I'm never going to be able to see the stars.

But, all the same, there's so much left to do. I want to plot the stars on my body and create worlds of infinite melody on the piano and feel the grass under bare feet and the sun lathering my bare neck. I want someone to kiss me up against a wall and mean it. I want to curl my toes in the ashes of London and rejoice in still existing.

There's this _world _out there that I'll never be able to see.

But I want it. I want to live it and taste it and feel it and just _be_ in it.

There's feeling tingling in the tips of my fingers as I thoughtfully trace the rim of the bottle of pills. There are official-sounding voices calling for the interviewees to line up, please, thank you very much, but for now I ignore them and knock back another pill before securing the bottle and returning it to beneath the neckline of my dress.

Back in the time before I had learned to recognize my mother for what she was - a pathetic, weak, hapless addict whose selfish actions resulted in the birth of a premature, blind baby already impregnated with a taste for drugs - I used to ask everyone if they knew where my mommy had went.

Daddy, blinded to all faults, still maintains that his poor wife is now an angel in the heavens watching over us and keeping us safe for harm.

My mouth quirks just a little bit even now. I press my flushed, heated cheekbone to the cool brick of the wall and listen to the crowd chorusing its welcome to the twenty-four children, me included, whom they have sentenced to death. _Good job, Mom._

Gran was never quite that optimistic. When I had asked her, three days after being unceremoniously dumped at her doorstep by my father, she had been silent for a long minute before taking my fat, childish hand in between her gnarled, arthritic ones and leading me up the stairs to her attic.

There she had unearthed a rolled-up tube of poster board that smelled faintly of stale perfume and must. Upon returning downstairs, she had carelessly swept a multitude of clutter from the dining room table and unfurled it carefully, using a variety of ashtrays, heavy books, and dumbbells to secure the edges of the chart, which were inclined to curl inwards in an attempt to reassume the curled-up position of earlier.

She had ordered me to practice scales (I went with much complaint) and when I returned, the chart had been pinned to the wall and was studded with metal thumbtacks in curious patterns that I soon learned represented the constellations of stars.

Every day after that, along with my piano lessons, I was required to spend an hour memorizing the precise alignment of the stars, tracing the thumbtacks with my fingertips until I could chart their positions in the expanse of nothing that spread, infinite, before my deadened eyes.

I cried the day that Gran told me that by the time a star's light reaches earth, it has already ceased to burn. She had chuckled a bit, but scooped me up into her bony, fairly uncomfortable lap with only a bit of effort all the same.

"The _most important_ secret to getting ahead in life," she had said gravely, chucking me rather painfully on the chin to ensure she had my undivided attention before continuing, "is to live your life like the stars. Be good or be bad, but _be _in a way that has an impact, something people can see even after you are gone. Otherwise everything you do is senseless and meaningless and trivial. Understand?"

I didn't. But, for fear of another painful flick to the chin, I had nodded.

I think maybe I understand a bit better now. Or maybe that's just the drugs talking. But like I said before, Gran never forgot and I'll be damned if I don't do the same. If I die, I'm going to die like a supernova - an explosion brighter, even, than the sun.

"Come on! Let's go! Line up! Up, up, up, up, up!"

I swat away the hands that are tugging at me irritably and force myself to my feet. Now, with drugs in my system, my high-heels seem to have reached new heights. I stagger on their spiky precipices and I shoulder my way over to the quietly buzzing line of tributes, my pills rattling against the chest in time with my heartbeat, my footsteps echoing behind me like a pulse.


	34. Sade Vs Jett Point to Sade!

Sade Artois of District 2

Interviews 1-4 by NotReallyAnOriginalUsername

* * *

"_Beauty is power. The same way money is power. The same way a gun is power."_

― Chuck Palahniuk, _Invisible Monsters_

Carefully, I raise my hand to my face. Closing my eyes, I follow the path of a small ridge that lines the left side of my face. The raised skin is smooth, jutting out suddenly next to my eyes and following a crooked pattern to my chin. I sigh quietly, thankful that Malcolm had convinced my prep team not to remove it. I had told him that I wanted it so that I could look dangerous, intimidating. Really I just wanted the memories that were behind it. The person that had given me it, the one boy I would feel empty without, Colton.

Opening my eyes, I take in my appearance.

My eyes pop with color, my stylist and her team had swirled dark greys and deep greens across my eyelid, fanning it out to make my eyes almost cat like. My hair falling gracefully down my back in perfect waves. Everything about me is gorgeous, jaw dropping, _perfect. _The sad thing is how much I hate it, especially the dress.

The dress perfectly hugs my figure in all the right places before flowing elegantly down to the ground. The color is strange, but gorgeous, a mixture of green and teal. It's has a sweet heart neckline and with a synched waist. Tons of small beads and gems adorn it, making it impossible for me not to sparkle.

Everything that makes it so beautifully perfect brings an acidic taste to my mouth.

_His breath is hot, the smell of alcohol clouding my senses. I can feel his hands resting on my hips, one of them reaching around me. There's calluses on his hands; they're rough on my skin as he unzips my dress…_

Faces flash behind my eyes and I flinch away from the mirror. I skim my fingers over the material of my dress. My stylist Magnificent stares at me with clasped hands, her purple eyes shining with delight. She prances over to me, orange curls bouncing crazily with each movement. She's so oblivious to everything.

"You look absolutely stunning!" Her voice is giddy with excitement as she spins me towards the mirror again.

I roll my eyes and step off the pedestal in front of the mirror, pushing the ignorant woman aside," I know."

Magnificent, still completely oblivious to my anger – which happens to be very obviously written in every single expression I make – stops me and bends down to clean my shoes _again_. Yes, again. She's probably scrubbed the 'dirt' off of my black pumps about ten times in the past two minutes. Smiling happily at my shoes she gets up and combs her fingers through my blonde waves before placing and replacing strands of my hair.

"Okay Maggie," I growl impatiently. "I think I'm ready."

"_Magnificent,"_ She corrects, that smile still plastered on her face. "I'm just making sure you look perfect!"

I roll my eyes impatiently, moving to get off the pedestal I'm standing on.

"Sade, hold on dear," I can hear her stilettos click against the tile surface as she runs across the room and back.

Spinning around, I tap my toe impatiently.

"Your necklace," She gasps, holding her hand to her heart exasperatedly.

Rolling my eyes I let her clasp the necklace around my neck. Though, as soon as I turn away from her I sigh contently, the weight of the necklace familiar around my neck. It's strange how attached you can get to something after having it for only a few days, even a few seconds.

I turn back towards the mirror, sighing. I wonder what Colton will think as he watches tonight. What he'll decide of the small girl on stage all dressed up in her finest wear. What he'll think of the girl that never told him she loved him, though she had so many chances to. I also can't help but wonder what my family is thinking, if Jace is proud of my score, if my mother can't help but smile at the 'strongest little woman' she knows, if my dad is happy his business his getting so much publicity.

"Oh Sade," Maggie looks at her watch. "It's time to go, go, go!"

I follow Maggie's curls down the hallway to the elevator. Jet and his prep team are waiting for us there, all of them quiet. Jet is smiling viciously, but when he turns to the noise of mine and Maggie's heels clicking down the hallway the smile disappears and his eyes become as cold at ice.

We all cram into the elevator, Jet and I pressed together with our stylists on either side of us. I take the time to look him over. His entire suit is black, probably to resemble the dark hole that took place of his soul. The material is satiny as it rubs against my arm with the slight movement of the elevator. I stop myself from nodding approval. I must admit, for a psychopath he cleans up nicely.

My eyes stop on the small diamond encrusted pin on his tie. It fans upward, shaped to resemble fire. I watch as the light catches the many diamonds, flickering around in rainbow patterns.

Jet clears his throat sharply and I lift my eyes slowly to meet his; cold blue against deep green. I was used to these stare offs. They had become a common thing these past couple days. I was just waiting for him to pounce so I could show him that though he might be a head or two taller than me, I could beat his skinny ass any day.

"Problem Matthews?" I hiss, raising an eyebrow.

"Didn't your Daddy ever teach you that staring was rude?" His voice is sharp, highlighting the word 'Daddy'.

_Bastard. He knows. How does he know?_

"Sorry. Not all of us are blessed with wonderful mentors like _Rebecca," _I smirk as the elevator doors open.

I can feel his glare on my back as I make my way to where Malcolm and our escort – whose name I finally figured out was Rainbow – wait for us. Malcolm's face is hard as he nods and ushers us into line with the other tributes. Rainbow claps giddily and smiles. I feel Maggie running her fingers through my waves again and I flick my wrist up at her. She moves away from me, still smiling (what a surprise, right?) and goes to stand next to the rest of mine and Jet's 'team'.

Jet and I stand between Canicus and the District 3 girl – Maeve I think her name is. We're all awkwardly bunched together, and I can feel Jet's eyes burning holes in the top of my head. Damn he's got some issues.

"Let's go!" A Peacekeeper shouts and we're moving.

I fall into step behind Canicus, bringing my shoulders back and straightening my posture. Almost immediately we're on stage. I can hear clapping, cheering, but I can't see anything. Bright lights beat down on us, illuminating the stage.

Ceasar Flickerman stands in the center of stage, beaming at what direction the crowd seems to be, next to him his son – Caesar Flickerman Jr. - stands waving and smiling. Looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Their hair, eyelids, and lips are a deep shade of red, standing out shockingly against their white makeup. There suits are the same deep red color, adorned with a thousand twinkling lights. They look like…sparkly demons.

"Hello, hello! Welcome ladies and gentlemen of Panem, to the interviews for the 25th Hunger Games!" Caesar Sr. pauses, his smile broadening. "Our first annual QUARTER QUELL!"

The crowd goes insane. There's clapping, cheering, screaming. Caesar Jr. bounces up and down on stage. Even I find myself smiling, the Flickerman's just have that effect on people.

"Let's begin," Ceasar smiles as he takes his seat. "Admire Blanchard of District 1!"

Admire stands up and I glare at her. The minute I met her, I knew I didn't like her. She had the nerve to think she was above me. _Bitch._

To say her dress sparkled would be an understatement. The entire thing is covered with multicolored jewels, each one catching the light differently and reflecting it. The neckline is low, giving her a good bit of cleavage that she didn't have before. She looks like a giant rainbow disco ball with boobs. I roll my eyes. Her hair is piled on top of her head in what I heard people calling a 'beehive'. Who wears those now-a-days? _So_ last season.

Admire holds out her hand, immediately expecting a kiss from Caesar and he complies. _Ugh._

"What a lovely dress Admire," Caesar Sr. says as he leans back in his chair, smiling.

She smirks," Isn't it?"

"You're very pretty," Caesar Jr. says, looking up at The Bitch in awe. I roll my eyes.

Admire puts a hand to her heart and laughs, throwing her head back in a lavish.

"So, Admire, you must be pretty fierce to get a Training Score like you. Tell me, how does such a lovely girl like you score something like that?" Caesar Sr. asks.

"Can't say Caesar," She smiles.

"Not even a little hint?" Caesar and his son lean forward.

"Uh-uh," She shakes her little beehive head. "A good player always keeps her cards close to her chest, and I'm a good player."

With that the buzzer goes off and she gets up and winks. Admire _winks._ There's only so many things I can take from this girl. Who the hell winks at the crowd? No actually, what I _should _be asking is who the hell responds to a wink like that? Apparently every goddamn person in the Capitol, that's who. I glare at her again and our eyes meet. She smirks and sits down as Canicus gets up for his interview.

"Like what you see Artios?" She whispers, snickering slightly.

"I don't know. Haven't exactly figured out what I'm looking at yet," I hiss, turning back towards Caesar and the audience.

Canicus stands up, smiling at me before striding toward Caesar Sr. and Jr. He's dressed in clean black pants and a well fitted jacket to match, his shirt a deep red color. On his neck hangs a pair of dog tags; one engraved with a sword, the other reads his name, age, and District 1 in neat little letters.

Canicus is friendly enough. So far he seems to be the only one that doesn't really hate me, and the feeling is mutual. Maybe it's his appearance, the fact that he resembles my brother in some ways that makes me want to be closer to him. Of course, I quickly push those feelings away. There's no room for getting attached in the Games.

"Canicus Macaulay! Hello, hello." Caesar Sr. shakes hands with Canicus before they both take their seats.

"Well, Canicus, I think I can safely say you're one of our most-watched tributes this year!" Caesar says, earning a loud applause from the audience.

Canicus just smirks, leaning back into his chair nonchalantly.

"And judging by your burns, you're one of the most deadly," Caesar turns toward the audience. "We all know what a little fire can do, eh?"

A nervous laugh runs through the crowd, probably remembering last year's District 1 male, Roy Rousseau. He happened to have a little thing for fire that eventually led to his death.

"Mind telling us how you got them?" Caesar asks, leaning forward curiously.

Canicus stiffens slightly, his eyes flashing with anger; though only for a second. I raise an eyebrow. I wonder what that was about.

"My burns are of no consequence. They are there and a part of me," He pauses. "Should I win, you may get the full story," He winks cockily. The crowd erupts in murmurs. Some girls in the front visibly swoon. I roll my eyes.

"Oh, please tell a little something!" Caesar asks, though only to receive a mischievous smile from Canicus.

Caesar Sr. sighs dramatically before moving onto his next question," So do you have any words of advice, or comments for your fellow competitors?"

Canicus smirks, as if he had prepared his whole life to be asked this question. "Loyalty is like blood. It runs deep within your veins but won't hesitate to run away if given the right… catalyst. I look forward to seeing where everyone's loyalties rush to once the Games start."

The buzzer goes off. The audience claps steadily, absorbing his last words. The tributes around me are suddenly still, running the statement through their heads. I couldn't dwell on it though; I had bigger things to think about.

Canicus sits down next to me easily, his smile wide. I release a shaky breath and straighten my posture. This is it; time to show all of Panem who Sade Artois _really _is.

Someone's hand falls on my shoulder. I shiver slightly at the cold touch, almost jumping away from the boy next to me.

"Have fun out there, _whore," _Jet's voice is piercing cold, driving through my core like knives.

"And from District 2, Sade Artois!" My name rings in my ears.

As I rise out of my chair I forcefully throw my fist back into Jet's privates, and boy, do I get him good. He lurches forward, choking slightly. I smirk and mouth the word 'Oops' as he stares at me with a fiery glare.

I turn back towards the audience, waving and blowing a kiss. Caesar Sr. stands up and grasps my hand, placing a small kiss on my knuckles as I curtsy Gracefully, I fall back into my seat and smile at him, waiting for the onslaught of questions.

Caesar Sr. beams at me. "I must say, you look absolutely stunning tonight!"

This earns a loud applause and a couple of wolf whistles from the crowd. The camera swivels around to Magnificent, who is smiling proudly. Her orange curls seem to bounce even when she isn't moving.

"You're an Artois, as in Artois Incorporated?" Caesar Sr. asks.

"You couldn't tell?" I gasp, putting my hand to my chest.

"Of course we could, right folks?" Caesar turns to the crowd and they erupt into applause. "I just meant to compliment your fathers work! Everything he does is AMAZING!"

My father? Amazing? Those words didn't even fit together in the same sentence. My father was far from amazing. He was below average, the lowest of lows. I fight the urge to yell this at them; to tell all the ignorant people of Panem how horrid and self - centered my father really is.

"So, I have a question I'm pretty sure we're all dying to know the answer to," Caesar says as the crowd quiets down.

I nod, leaning toward him," And that is?"

I already know he's going to ask about my scar though. Everyone does.

"What does someone so petite and pretty do to get a scar like that?"

I smile, "Well, what you should be asking is how someone so petite and pretty managed to take on the person that gave me the scar, and _WIN!"_

The audience erupts into whispers as Caesar Sr. gasps and looks around in shock. _Perfect._

"Oh please, tell us more!" Caesar Jr. bounces impatiently from foot to foot, earning laughter and applause from the crowd.

"Now, we wouldn't want to embarrass the poor boy, would we?" I laugh.

As the buzzer goes off, I stand up, shooting the crowd one last winning smile. Everything went perfectly. I was everything they wanted from the female tribute of District 2; elegant enough to reel them in, mysterious enough to make them want more.

I smirk at Jet as he walks by, too happy to be affected by the evil glare that he shoots at me and the threat behind it. I can feel myself becoming addicted to the rush the applause sends through my nerves, it's wonderful; like walking on air.

There's something in the back of my head nagging at me; a small voice hiding behind all the dizzying excitement. I pause for a moment, closing my eyes to steady myself. Behind my eyelids, I can see Colton's face clearly. He shakes his head, disappointed. _Like a Career._

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I sit down next to Canicus. At the front of the stage, Jet stands staring at Caesar Sr.'s outstretched hand like it was the foulest thing he has ever laid his eyes upon.

Caesar coughs nervously, wiping the palms of his hands on his pants. I snicker; Jet had that effect on everyone.

"Jet Matthews," Caesar laughs. "So it looks like you have some pretty serious competition this year."

Jet releases a sound somewhere between and snarl and a laugh," I think the 'serious competition' is simply children putting up a front."

"Oh?" Caesar raises an eyebrow.

"Just because someone…has a scar per se, doesn't mean they're all they make themselves up to be," Jet turns to look at me, his eyes burning with fire. "In the arena, it'll be easy to weed out the weak."

I narrow my eyes, returning the glare. All the cameras swivel to focus on us. If anyone kills him, it will be me. I don't care if it's the last thing I do. That bastard is going to get the slowest death I can muster up.

Caesar clears his throat, drawing the attention back to the interview at hand. Throughout the rest of his interview Jet is mostly silent; using one word answers with the occasional laugh or snarl. All I can think of is how I plan on ending his life. He thinks I'm weak? Most people that dared to challenge me ended up with scars, some almost fatal wounds. Sade Artois, _weak_? I'm neither emotionally nor mentally weak.

I clench my fists, staring at the crazed boy sitting at the front of the stage. He's mumbling the answer to a question that wasn't asked, most likely talking to _Rebecca._

The buzzer goes off and Jet stands up stiffly, his arms tightly pressed to his sides. The audience claps, whispering to each other. Jet has struck fear in them. I don't know if that good or bad, though. I shake my head. It's obviously bad for him. No one bets on the insane, hell if he's depending on those stupid voices in the Games, he won't make it very far.

"From District 3, Maeve Morghal!" Caesar stands up, waving his arm.

The girl, Maeve if I heard correctly, stands up. She's strange, with her all black dress and odd lacey umbrella she's twirling over her head. Her arms are covered in a black lace, designed to mimic spider webs. She claims to be "Death's Messenger" – whatever the hell _that _means - and can apparently talk to the dead. Really, she's just as insane as Jet.

"So, Maeve, I hear you have a special…ability," Caesar Sr. says.

She nods, her pale blonde hair shifting around her face with the action.

"What is this ability of yours?"

"I'm Death's Messenger," She smiles.

I roll my eyes.

"Death's Messenger?" Caesar Jr. stares at the girl with wide eyes. "What does that mean?"

"Well," She smirks," I have the ability to know, or sense I suppose, when people are going to die. I can also talk to those who have recently passed."

"You talk to dead people?" Caesar Jr. scoffs.

Maeve's face drops slightly as Caesar hushes his son. The audience is filled with quiet chuckles and soft whispers. I almost feel bad for the girl, she has a lot of guts to claim she can talk to dead people, let alone claim she can foresee death. She tugs at one of the layers of her tiered dress and looks up, smiling.

"Yes. Well, it would be more correct to say that they talk to me. I don't go out looking for them," She says.

"How you sense when people are going to die? Do you see it happen?" Caesar Sr. laughs.

"Well, actually, the people that have already passed tell me. I don't see how it happens, when, or why. I just know it's coming."

"Ah. So, has…Death… told you any juicy details about the Games?" Caesar is now joking with her.

She frowns slightly, cocking her head to the side. Then, she sits straight up," I've been told I'll win."

The buzzer goes off and I roll my eyes. I give the girl props, but it's blatantly obvious she's a liar now. No one knows who will win the Games, and even if she did, she should be smart enough to know if won't be her. She walks to her seat between her district partner and Jet.

Her district partner is quite cute. Maybe it's the freckles and the glasses, but he's quite adorable. He's quite tall, towering over me – though most everyone here seems to – and thin. Though, you can see some muscle definition through the charcoal grey shirt he's wearing.

The District 3 boy pushes his glasses up the brim of his nose before standing up. Caesar Sr. smiles and shakes hands with him.

"Brennadon Rydik, how are you?" Caesar Sr. says.

Brennadon smiles as well, taking his seat. "I'm good, I'm good. And yourself?"

Caesar smiles and nods," I'm good. So, Brennadon, how are you liking things here in the Capitol?"

"The food is great. The rooms are grand, not much to complain about."

"Oh don't get me started on the food, thank goodness for the gym!" Caesar laughs.

The crowd shouts there agreement; laughing and clapping. The food was superb, but I had been trying not to over indulge, who knows how much food would be in the arena. I couldn't afford to stuff myself every day, and then starve to death in the arena.

"Tell me if I'm incorrect, but your father is a Peacekeeper, yes?"

Brennadon's back stiffens and his smile vanishes. Through gritted teeth he says," Yes. That is correct."

Next to me, Canicus whispers," I heard he's a bastard. Apparently his mom cheated on his dad."

I snicker, turning to look at Canicus," Really?"

"Yeah, that's why everyone voted him in. His district hates him; he's an embarrassment or something."

I smirk, watching as Brennadon clenches his fists, his muscles rippling slightly. Caesar seems obliviously to the fuming teen next to him. I'm not quite sure what set him off, maybe mentioning his father lights the fuse. If it's that east to make him mad, it should be even easier to kill him the arena.

The buzzer goes off and Brennadon stands up, throwing a glare Canicus' way. There's been beef between those two, though I'm not sure why. Brennadon hates him and Canicus returns the feeling, simply because he doesn't care enough to find out why Brennadon hates him.

The District 4 girl, Roulla Saney, stands up. Her hair is twisted up into a bun, a small comb holding the twist in place. She's wearing a silver sheath dress, the same color as her comb. The dress is floor-length with one shoulder. She's one of the few tributes that I respect, mainly because she doesn't bullshit anything.

"District 4's female tribute, Roulla Saney!"

Roulla sits down next to Caesar, her back straight as a board. She folds her hands in her lap and narrows her as she looks over the audience.

"So Roulla, you're obviously a very lovely girl. Anyone special back home?" Ceasar smiles.

Roulla's lips tighten into a thin line, and she raises her eyebrows slightly, "I do not care about love. Love is for people who have nothing on their minds. I am a goal-oriented person, and my goal is Victory. As such, love has been beneath my notice." Her voice is sharp, each word punctuated.

Caesar nods," So you're taking the Games very seriously?"

"I intend to win," Her facial expression hasn't changed; still cold with those calculating eyes of hers.

Caesar nods and Caesar Jr. steps up," I'd bet on you."

The audience laughs and Roulla let's a small smirk play at the corner of her lips.

"I hear our lovely Head Gamemaker, Phoenix, has quite a…deadly… arena planned for you and your fellow competitors this year. Do you think you're ready?" Caesar Sr. asks, ruffling his son's hair.

"I am ready as ready as I need to be. I have spent most of my time training for whatever they plan to have ready for us. No sense in worrying over something I cannot control," Roulla purses her lips slightly.

Roulla reminds me of Echo. In so many ways they are the same person. The way Roulla talks, the way she says things, her no bullshit attitude. That's why I respect her so much, almost to the point where I look up to her. Echo and her could be long lost twins.

The buzzer goes off and Roulla stands in one swift motion. As we walks back to her seat I notice that she almost appears to float as she walks, her dress gliding along the ground behind her.

Con leans across the chairs and winks at me," Wish me luck, doll!"

I smirk. Con Rossencourte, so many words to describe that boy. He claims to be a business man, with quite the persuasive attitude. His accent is something rare and he refers to most everyone as 'doll'. Con is taller than me, though shorter than most everyone else. He's also quite thin, but he carriers himself as though he's the biggest, strongest man to walk the Earth.

Con's wearing a black tux, the dark fabric clean and slick. He's wearing a cloak adorned with feathers; it ruffles behind him as he walks. To complete his look, he's wearing a signature black fedora. He slides into his seat next to Caesar and smiles.

"So, Con, I hear you're a business man?" Caesar Sr.

Con laughs," You heard correctly. Ah'm a business man."

"What kind of business do you work in?"

"The best kind of business," Con smiles, pausing slightly. "The easy, light hearted kind."

Con takes out a gold coin from his pocket, rolling it across his knuckles a couple times. Caesar Jr. watches in awe, before asking Con what the coin was for. I already know what the answer to this question was. Several of the other tributes had asked him throughout the week what it was for.

I laugh as he answers," To buy mah first drink once Ah win, of course." He smirks, flipping the coin into the air. It reflects the stage lights with each turn before landing with a _slap_ in the palm of Con's hand.

I don't hear Caesar's next question as I focus on the coin in Con's hand. He rolls it back and forth across his knuckles, the same way I've seen my father do with a poker chip. It's nonchalant, easy. He flips the coin into the air again, not as high as the first time, and I watch it quickly flip through the air; once, twice, a third time.

In that moment, as the coin lands in Con's hand, I realize that I'm not the only contender in these Games. Regardless of the score I might have gotten, a score that could be considered mediocre, regardless of how good I _think_ I am, I'm hardly the best or strongest tribute. Hell, I'm as typical as Onyx was last year. Nothing about me raises my chances of winning. Nothing about any of us raises our chances. Someone from the outer Districts could just as easily go home as someone from the Careers could. We all have a one out of twenty four chance of winning, hardly a 4% chance of going home, and almost every single one of us is treating this like a simple gold coin – acting as if we're holding victory in the palm of our hand.

As the buzzer that signals the ending of Con's interview goes off, I lean back in my chair. I trace my scar with my finger, shaking my head. I'm starting to sound too much like Colton.

_Stop being so negative Sade, your chances are still good. You've still got this._ I remind myself as I quickly slide back to normal, rolling my eyes as the District 5 girl's name is called.


	35. From the Bottom of a Glassor Three

Sorry! Got my days mixed up! So it's a day late.

* * *

_**Anya Powers of District Eight**_

_**Districts 5-8 Interviews by Nightfuries**_

* * *

_**The chief reason for drinking is the desire to behave in a certain way, and to be able to blame it on alcohol.**_

_**-Mignon McLaughlin**_

Everyone is thrilled tonight; after all, it is the interviews, a time for each and every citizen of the Capitol to nearly wet themselves with excitement. Of course, all they really see are the pretty costumes and the mostly fake acts we tributes put on, but if one were to look _real_ close, one might see something slightly odd. Anya Powers, the tribute whose stylist almost had to resort to tranquilising her just to get her into her chariot costume, is in a dress and _smiling_. _Now that's odd,_ one might wonder. _Why is she so cheerful?_The answer, my friends, is a very simple one: Anya Powers is drunk out of her _mind._

Admittedly, my mentor had decidedly _not_ been all for the idea. I'd barely wandered near the bar that had been conveniently placed on the train for tributes just like myself when he'd planted himself firmly in front of it and cut me right off with a sharp, "No drinking, either here or in the Capitol."

I can tell you, that had put a damper on _my_ day.

But come on, do you think a little thing like getting on the bad side of the one person who could potentially hold the key to my survival would stop _Anya Powers_ from getting to her alcohol? And I thought you all knew me so well. Admittedly, it might have been a good idea to try and go without it, suffering from the effects of withdrawal here in the Capitol rather than the arena where 23 others are trying to kill me. But you know what, that sounds suspiciously like some sort of strategy where I might actually have to plan things out, and just thinking about trying to formulate tactics for the Games makes my head hurt. I am strictly a one-step-at-a-time kind of person. Especially when I'm drunk. Honestly, is there anything that ruins the pleasure of having a few drinks more than contemplating your imminent doom that occurs tomorrow?

Still, probably _should_ pay attention to some of these interviews. I kind of zoned out for all tributes from Districts 1 to 4, only picking up a few random lines that I figure might actually have made sense if I'd bothered to listen to them in context. But now I force myself to focus on the bright mane of red hair that is the District 5 female as she passes the guy with the weird accent on her way to the stage. Caesar introduces her as the wonderful Atalanta Zimmerman and she takes her seat across from him and his son, who seems to be transfixed, either by her shimmering silver gown or fiery red hair, I neither know nor care to.

"So, Atalanta, welcome to the Capitol!" Caesar says, as though she just arrived and hasn't actually been her for nearly a week. "I love the dress, by the way."

The girl just smirks. "It's not really my kind of thing."

He makes an overly exaggerated shocked face for the audience. "Really? But it looks so beautiful on you." He smiles and turns to little Caesar, who still seems mesmerised. "And I think my son might agree. But why don't you like it? Not a fan of dresses?"

"It's not so much the dress as the colour," Atalanta responds, earning a curious look from Caesar.

"Silver? What's wrong with it?"

"It represents second place. And I can assure you, I'll be going for the gold in the Games."

There's a second where the tiny brains of the Capitol seconds pause to understand her words, than everyone starts laughing along with Caesar. Huh, seems this girl's got a bit of an ego – the smirk she wears is quite reminiscent of the ones plastered onto the Careers faces from One, Two and Four. Ignoring the interview for a moment, I try to drag my scattered thoughts back together in an attempt to remember whether I ever saw this girl in the Pack alliance; figure now might just be a good time to know that sort of information.

Yeah, yeah, night before the Games and I'm just now trying to figure out which of my opponents might be teaming up. Hey, better late than never.

"So, Atalanta, any plans for alliances in the arena?"

Thank you, Caesar! I guess he was wondering the same as I had been; and now my poor, intoxicated brain doesn't have to think! Which is good, because all this attempted use of my mind was starting to make me feel sick. And as funny as it had been the first time, I doubt the Capitol would appreciate if I threw up on live television for them _again._

Someone releases a derisive snort; crap, right, the interviews. I try to pull my focus back to the stage before me, which is pretty hard with the current state of my attention span; I can just feel it beginning to drop below the levels of that of a small, furry mammal that likes to climb trees. Hey, speaking of squirrels . . .

No, Anya, focus. _Focus_.

"No, I don't think I'll be making an alliance in the arena," Atalanta says, shaking her head as though she can't believe she was asked a question with an answer that was apparently obvious to everyone; you know, except the millions and millions watching this broadcasted interviews. Caesar seems to be confused as well, and doesn't hesitate to ask her why. "Because I don't need anyone."

_Ah, more pride problems. _I'd dealt with my fair share of those, that's for sure. My mother had a horrible sense of honour that she wouldn't hesitate to defend if someone so much as poked at it with a straw. It was _awful_. I remember one time when she dragged me along with her to get some new clothes and we ended up spending two hours arguing with these two old, homeless guys who she believed had insulted her in some way.

"_What did you just say?"_

_Oh, great, here we go again. Mom's turned back to the men and I glance over at her, but she's too busy staring them down. Wonderful, here it comes; the Mom Glare. And sure enough, there go those scary grey eyes, focusing all of their intimidation power to try and make the two guys quake in their boots . . . metaphorically, since they don't seem to actually be wearing anything on their feet. Surprisingly though, they don't even flinch at the glare, which only leads me to sigh. Looks like we're going to be here for a while – and I didn't even want to come in the first place. Stupid dress shopping, stupid crazy homeless dudes, stupid Mom getting mad at their stupid insult . . ._

"_Changed your mind?" one of them asks, holding out his palm again and referencing the fact that just moments ago they asked us for handouts on our way to the tailor's. Of course, Mom didn't give them anything, which most likely led to their whispered comment about the "old, uncharitable bat."_

"_No, but I highly suggest you change yours," Mom answers, bringing herself up to her full height. She actually isn't all that tall, but she has this way of standing really straight and making herself seem like, eight feet. Then again, the two men are sitting down in their little alleyway, so that also helps with the comparison of height. "Do you know who I am?"_

_Oh, not this question again. It seems like every time someone makes some sort of snide comment or insult, that phrase pops up. Do you know who I am? Jeez, Mom, you're not the president of Panem! Qwella Powers isn't exactly a household name; you're not known universally. As demonstrated when one of the men answers her question with, "An old, uncharitable bat?"_

_If this had been back in her rebellious years, she probably would have punched the guy. Actually, that could be mildly entertaining; I glance at Mom hopefully but of course, after nineteen years of lying low and being normal and having a family, the instinct to hit people she doesn't like has been somewhat diminished. Although I can still see the fiery light in her eyes that states she'd love to knock some sense into them; too bad she won't act on it. I sigh again and absentmindedly fiddle with one of the blonde curls that always hangs in my face; and I actually thought I might see a bit of excitement before enduring the torture of being forced into a dress. Apparently not._

"_I've done more to help this district than you two could EVER imagine. Probably just hid in your little alleyway like the cowards you are during the rebellion, while other brave men and women worth ten of you fought. Remember that next time you go trying to insult someone."_

_"So are we to assume you're one of these 'brave men and women?'"_

_Mom doesn't respond, but the answer's still pretty obvious as she stares them down one last time before turning on her heel and marching away, grabbing my shoulder as she goes to make sure I don't stay; which, to be fair, I was considering. Might have just been me, but I thought the two guys were kind of cool. At least until one of them calls out after us, "So if we had all these "brave" men and women like you fighting for us, how come we still have the Hunger Games?"_

_Oh, no. Did he just . . .? Yes, yes he did._

_The Hunger Games has been a bit of a sore spot for Mom, and all the others who fought so hard for freedom. Kind of adding insult to injury; hey, not only did you lose the rebellion, but we're gonna take your children and force them to kill each other too! Not something you want to bring up with an ex-rebel. I glance over at Mom, noting the newfound tenseness in her shoulders, the dangerous light in her eyes. I can tell what she's going to do. "Aw, come on Mom," I whine, just wanting to get on with the shopping so that I can have the rest of my afternoon free._

"_Quiet, Anya," she says, already releasing my shoulder and turning back to where the two men are. "And stay here."_

_Stay here; yeah, right. Hey, if she HAS to go "teach these guys a lesson," well, might as well watch the show._

Ah, such fond memories of my childhood; there was certainly never a dull moment when Mom was around. Huh, I never thought of it that way before; maybe I left after she died because she supplied the action and interesting things I loved to have in my life. Wait, does that mean that I actually _missed_ her, in my own weird way?

Oh man, I must be more drunk then I thought if I'm contemplating actually _missing_ Mom. I laugh slightly and shake my head, but the idea still sticks in my mind. Well, I guess I can't deny everything; I mean, Mom _did _provide some entertainment. I hadn't seen her resort to throwing punches in a while, and watching her attack the unsuspecting homeless guys was kind of funny. Good thing they didn't hold the grudge against me too, or when I next stumbled upon them they might not have let me stay in their little group for five more years.

"There's a boy in my class who says that," a young voice pipes up. Right, right; interviews. Shoot, did I miss anything? I pull my attention back to the present and luckily it seems that Little Caesar is just responding to Atalanta's comment about not needing anyone. "But everyone else says that it secretly means he has no friends."

I let out a snort, trying to contain myself from bursting in to full-out laughter as the rest of the Capitol audience chuckles. I really don't think the kid meant anything by it; he's been blurting out things like that ever since his dad first decided to take him on the show. But by the way Atalanta glares down at him, I can tell she won't accept any excuses. "I have _plenty_ of friends back home, thank you very much. And anyone who thinks that the arena is a place for friendship is an idiot."

Silence falls over the audience as her words ring through the City Circle, Caesar Jr. looking up at her like she's some sort of monster about to eat him. Lucky his father has had years of experience dealing with all sorts of tributes who say all sorts of things; before the quiet gets awkward, he quickly interjects. "Ah, yes, your friends. Tell me about them."

The District Five female seems like she'd still love to eat little Caesar for breakfast, but after another second of glaring she breaks eye contact and looks up. "I have three: Avis, Birgitta and . . . Lyric." Maybe the alcohol's making me hear things but I swear her voice caught on that last name, and by the look on Caesar's face I think he heard it too. His mouth opens to ask another, most likely personal question, but just then a loud buzzer echoes through the area, effectively ending the interview and saving Atalanta in the process. She quickly rises and heads back to her seat, but with less of the attitude she'd held with her at the beginning. Is there a story behind that? Probably. Do I care? Eh . . . no. Honestly, I don't understand why every tribute feels the need to have a fake façade and then an _additional_ personality underneath. _Way_ to complicated, that. I'm just going to head out there and let the alcohol do the talking.

Just as Atalanta plops herself back down in her seat, her district partner rises, walking to the stage while the crowd oohs and ahhs at his interview outfit. It's essentially a cloak, but all through the material are glowing wires, curling and twisting to form a vast network of shining lines making up the entire exterior of his costume. Even I can't help but stare at it in awe. So bright . . . so bright . . .

Well, it's official; my attention span has fallen past that of a squirrel and is now hovering somewhere near the moth range.

My eyes drift away from the cloak, instead choosing to focus on a married couple sitting in the audience, the woman of which is whispering quickly to her husband (most likely something about the interviews) and is seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's _sound_asleep. Hey, look, someone who cares for this event about just as much as I do. I guess even in the Capitol there are a select few that the Hunger Games just can't excite. Still, it's not like _his_ life could be at risk if he chooses not to pay attention. Mine, unfortunately, is, which is why I really need to try and focus. But please, can they get anymore repetitive?

"Well, Bastian, it's a pleasure to have you here tonight!" Caesar says warmly and I watch as the boy takes a seat across from the two interviewers (does little Caesar count as a whole interviewer? Nah, I'd say combined they make up about one and a half), his cloak rustling and glimmering as the fabric folds to allow him to sit. The bright . . . shiny fabric . . . no, no, don't look. Jeez, that thing is like a crafty trap for the inebriated. _Look, let's just focus on Mr I'm-Too-Lazy-To-Even-Bother-Staying-Awake in the audience; that way, you can hear what's going on, but you'll actually be able to focus. See, isn't that a smart plan, Anya? What do you know, you can think when you're drunk!_

Although as the seconds tick by and Bastian's interview continues, I begin to think that maybe that cloak is the only thing holding my attention. These tributes . . . they all just seem so similar. Okay, there are some differences, like the fact that where Atalanta was ruthless and cocky, Bastian is more nervous and awkward; and admittedly I didn't really listen to any before the District 5 ones but still, the banality of their lives is nearly boring me to tears. Either they're putting up false fronts to hide their real emotions and feelings from the Capitol (the most likely case), or they're lives are really that depressingly normal. And to think, if I hadn't ditched Dad all those years ago, I might have ended up like them. Perish forbid.

My mind begins to wander after the first minute and unconsciously, I start playing a little game, answering the questions Caesar asks Bastian in my head before said tribute responds; adds a little spice to the interview and allows _me_ to stay awake.

"So, Bastian, any family members back home?"

_Nah, I just poofed into existence one day without any known parents or siblings at all. Although I do worship elephants as honorary members of my family._

"Well, I have a father and a mother, and there's also my brother, Benjamin."

"Wonderful, wonderful. And what do you enjoy doing to pass the time?"

_I'm glad you asked Caesar! I have this fantastically fun hobby of massacring towns and torturing their inhabitants. Between attacks though, I also enjoy categorising the world's endless shades of pink._

"I-I actually don't really do all that much for entertainment. I mean, um, sometimes I . . . write. I guess that's why my token is a notebook. Actually, I'm writing a book for the Capitol now."

"Really?" Caesar's expression melts into one of extreme interest while his son attempts to copy it. "Tell us more."

_Oh, it's going to be a completely fantastic novel on the absolute horrors of Capitol trends. I'm thinking of calling it "Capitol Disaster: A Fashion Fail Tale." Essentially it'll be exploring each and every aspect of the designer world, and why everything seems to have gone so horribly wrong._

"I don't want to spoil it too much," Bastian says, seeming to grow more confident now that the topic revolves around something he appears to be an expert in. "But I can tell you that once I finish, it'll be spectacular."

"What about friends?"

_My absolute BFF is a wandering unicorn I happened across, although I do also enjoy spending time with my magical pet toad._

"Actually, my family and I, we're not particularly . . . well-liked amongst the other district citizens."

"Oh? You seem like a kind, charming young man; what could they possibly have against you?"

_Well, remember those fun hobbies I was talking about? Yeah, my parents got me into that; they're mass murderers and often enjoy going around and killing off various members of District 5._

"Something happened, a few years back, caused by my father. It was just an accident but a lot of people were injured and some . . . were killed. Well, anyways, we haven't been treated particularly kindly since."

His words stop me in my tracks as I realise that my absurd, random guess to the answer of the question actually wasn't as far off as I'd assumed it would be. Something about that makes me smile slightly, and then the whole scenario seems to start transforming, becoming more and more hilarious until I'm holding back chuckles, earning me a few strange/disgusted looks from the other tributes.

"Why are you laughing?" Damian whispers next to me, a confused and somewhat appalled expression on his face as he eyes my attempt at holding back giggles.

I open my mouth to explain to him, but it just seems like so much work, so the only words that end up coming out of my mouth are, "It's so funny!"

Obviously, this doesn't go over well with my district partner.

"He just said that his father caused an accident that killed people . . . and you find that funny?" Damian eyes me up and down, looking pretty repulsed, but then it seems to dawn on him. "Are you drunk?"

"What?!" I sputter, and it doesn't really help my case when I hiccup at the end of the word. "I can't believe you would ever suggest that! When have I ever gotten drunk? Never, I say!"

"Yep; you're drunk." Damian shakes his head slightly, but some sort of new emotion sprouts in his eyes and he tries to casually scoot away from me.

"What was that?" I ask, frowning.

"What was what?"

"That little . . . moving away thingy." Sure, it makes sense that most of the population of Panem wouldn't want to be around a drunken person, especially when said person has already thrown up on live TV while intoxicated. But Damian's seen me drunk since (I_told_ you a little thing like my mentor's advice wasn't going to stop me from getting to the alcohol) and he knows that I'm not usually a total idiot while drinking. Actually, now that I think about it, it was the day of the private training sessions when that all changed; afterwards came the weird looks and the extreme awkwardness from the usually cocky and collected thief. To be honest, I barely remember a _thing_ about that day other than being extremely drunk (my reasoning was that I didn't have any plan going into the session, so I figured I might as well have a few drinks beforehand. That way, if it went badly, I could just blame it on the alcohol. Yeah, that might explain my terrible training score). But now I'm starting to consider the possibility that something might have happened that day, something that even just the memory of makes my normally smooth and quick-on-his-feet district partner seem slightly agitated and apprehensive.

Or it could be something I've dealt with ever since I've been on the streets, a factor of my appearance that makes most people want to move away from me. Just in case, I tilt my head and try to sniff myself. "Do I smell?"

This catches Damian off-guard and he glances at me. "What? . . . No."

"Good, because it took my stylist, prep team and a squad of six Peacekeepers to get me into a bathtub and I'm pretty sure they'd be displeased if all their work was for nothing."

A look crosses over his face, one of complete disbelief; but do I perhaps spot a hint of approval hiding in there as well? "Six Peacekeepers?"

"Yep. And I'm happy to say that they were all pretty bloodied and bruised by the end of it," I add, grinning at the memory. It actually had been quite fun to watch as they tried their various methods of getting me into the bath; though my happy mood swiftly ended when they finally did manage to force me into the tub.

"So you're saying you fought with six Peacekeepers . . . because you didn't want to take a bath?"

"Is there a problem with that?"

"It sounds kind of stupid."

"Hey! Look who's talking Mr I'm-Fighting-With-A-Peacekeeper-Over-A-Rat."

"Ferret," Damian corrects automatically, although I'm pretty sure he's not exactly sure what that little thing, which he must have left in his room for the interviews, is. "And that's different. He's my best friend." I open my mouth to interject with some sort of snarky comment as to how sad that last bit sounded, but he seems to know what I'm about to do and quickly continues. "Besides, there was a life at stake for that fight. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have died if you got in a bath."

I frown, trying to work my alcohol-addled brain into coming up with a suitable comeback. "Um, excuse me, you forget about the dozens of ticks and fleas that probably had made a home on me at some point. _Their_ lives were at stake."

Considering my level of intoxication, I found this a pretty reasonable excuse, but Damian just stares at me, looking somewhat grossed out. "That's disgusting."

Yeah, okay, maybe it is, but I can't just let him have the last word, now can I? "Hey, you have your pets, I have mine."

Of course, this comment doesn't really do much to waver his expression of revulsion. "That doesn't mean it's not disgusting."

"Yeah, well . . ." I wrack my brain, trying to find a something else to say back, but nothing comes up. Then I remember why this whole discussion on small parasitic entities and their differentiating levels of grossness began. "Stop changing the subject!"

He raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't."

"I mean before. We were talking about you and your not-so-subtle methods of avoiding me; what you've been doing since the private training sessions. What's with that?"

He just rolls his eyes, but I swear some sort of embarrassment flickers across his face. "I just shifted in my chair. Sorry if that's some sort of capital offence. Or rather, Capitol offence."

I let out a snort, but at the same time, I can't let him change the subject again. "Well, whatever happened that day must have been pretty bad."

I was hoping to catch him off-guard, letting him think his little joke had distracted me, but he just waves the question away with another eye-roll. "Nothing happened."

"I didn't say anything?"

"No."

"Oh." I pause, analysing his face to try and see if he's lying. But I can barely maintain enough focus to stay on one topic of conversation, let alone drag together enough drunken brain cells to try and notice any signs that might give his words away as a fib. Then again, I _am_ talking to District 8's most renown thief; kid can probably lie almost as well as I can drink. "Well, okay then." We turn back to watching the interviews, just in time to catch Bastian say, "Really, what's life but one big story? And as far as writers go, I'm a bit different; I usually write the ending first. So I've already got my life's story's big finish planned; and let me tell you, it's not going to end _any_ time soon."

"Very powerful words from a truly memorable tribute!" Caesar says and the audience claps just as an idea hits me. "Wait," I say, turning to Damian. "Did I . . . do something?"

As my words resonate through the air I swear I see that smooth, cool thief façade falter, but I have no time to double check; the audience currently decides that now would be a _great_ time to distract me with their thunderous applause as Bastian rises from his seat, trailing that oh-so-bright (focus, Anya) cloak behind him, but the clapping keeps going long after he's left the stage. Oh, good Lord, please don't tell me they're going to keep going until the _next_ person takes to the stage, because it seems like it'll take a while. There's no detectable movement from the District 6 female and quite a few of us tributes don't bother trying to mask our movements as we lean out to try and see what the holdup is. Though it's nothing that I can see; the little sixteen year-old just seems content to sit in her chair and finger the diamonds that stud her arm, also decorating her velvet dress and reddish-gold hair. Most of the other tributes seem to understand though, sitting back in their chairs, their confusion apparently satisfied. Well, hurray for them actually paying attention to their opponents before now. _What was special about her? _I try to think as a Peacekeeper who must have been appointed to stand nearby for just such a purpose makes his way towards the tribute to lead her to the stage, Londyn tripping and wobbling with every step. _Some sort of disability? Loss of limb? Hmm, nope, all accounted for. Mute? Nah. Deaf? Maybe . . ._

"Please, everyone, give a warm welcome to Londyn Aureole!" Caesar shouts to the crowd as he takes her hand from the Peacekeeper and guides her to the chair himself.

"S-sorry for the wait," she murmurs, whimpering slightly on the last word. "I just . . . couldn't see when . . ."

_Blind! That's it!_ I nearly snap my fingers once it hits me. Well, I'm feeling pretty darn proud of myself right now; I'm pretty sure this is the most thinking I've ever done after having a few drinks. Actually, scratch that; this might just be the most thinking I've ever had to do in my _life_. Who would have thought the Games would be so hard on the brain? And we're not even in the arena yet. Oh, I can't _wait_ for that part to start.

But until the moment where I have to start fearing for my life, I'm stuck here listening to tributes ramble on about themselves. This Londyn, at least, seems slightly different; I mean, other than the obvious, of course. I can't quite put my finger on it, until Caesar politely attempts to question her more about her disability. "Has it always been this way?"

Londyn nods slightly, tears welling up in her unseeing eyes. "Ever since I was born. I-I've tried to get past it, but it's hard."

I think I'm starting to get the urge to throw up again, and not because of the drinks; the sweet, pitiful little blind girl act is so fake even _I_ can see through it in my intoxicated state. But of course, the Capitol is lapping it up; which was probably Londyn's intention. Hmm, wonder what it'd be like to see this girl when her _real_ personality is shining through.

Caesar pats her leg comfortingly with one hand while the other reaches up as if to brush away a tear; of course, this sets the audience off, and soon you can here dozens of sympathetic murmurs and tears being shed for this poor, unfortunate tribute. "I'm sure you've been managing wonderfully though."

Of course, it's picturesque, heart-wrenching moments like this that exist solely so little Caesar can come along and ruin them. Which he does, in all the eloquence and maturity that can be possessed by a little kid like him. "Why don't you get glasses?"

His father pauses in the middle of his compassionate act, a brief look flashing across his face and disappearing just as quickly before anyone in the audience can pick it up. But I know it well; 'tis an expression my mother wore often whenever she dragged me out of the house on errands and I threw fits (alright, admittedly I wasn't the most pleasant toddler). In other words, it's a look that clearly says, _Good God, why did I bring this little monster out with me and unleash it on this poor, undeserving world?_

Caesar Jr. seems unsatisfied by the lack of reaction his comment gets from the audience; maybe he was expecting them to laugh, or remark how smart he is for coming up with such a _brilliant_ idea. His face goes red, deepening to a shade almost matching his hair and makeup colour as he continues, "Our neighbour used to only be able to see close up, but then he got his eyes fixed with some special equipment! I don't think you have that in the districts though, so you'll have to do with glasses."

Ouch, pulling the "Capitol has more money and technology than the rest of you suckers" card. Again, I highly doubt he means it the way he's said, but unfortunately he's a bit too young to be using the excuse I'll be saying if I something offensive or rude (i.e. it's the alcohol's fault) so there's nothing to defend himself when the handful of tributes up and down the line who certainly don't appreciate _that_ comment glare slightly. As for Londyn, she just pauses in the middle of her act, eyes focused on a spot somewhere to the left of the kid's head, and as she opens her mouth, it almost seems likes she's going to break her wimpy act and say something snarky, sarcastic and decidedly _not _pitiful. But the actual reaction is even stranger; she _laughs_. Not like a little You're-Stupid-But-I-Should-Humour-You-Or-I-Might-Die laugh; no, this is full-on, side-splitting whoops and chuckles that echo through the City Circle until the air in her lungs begins to run out and she just sits back in her chair, sinking into breathless giggles. "S-sorry," she says, once she manages to get some air back into her system. "I-I guess I'm just nervous."

"Nervous my foot," I whisper, snickering to myself as it finally becomes clear to me. What do you know, it looks like I'm not the only one under the influence of something else tonight.

"What?" Damian whispers to me, taking in my chuckling.

"I think Little Miss Londyn's been playing with something she shouldn't have been."

"Meaning?"

"She's high."

"What?" He glances at her again, watching the tribute in question calm herself enough to fully continue the interview with Caesar, who begins to ask her about her home life. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. Trust me, there aren't a lot of people like that in Eight, but when there are, we see them." It's true, really. All of the messed up people in our district our little group tends to know, if not as acquaintances, then as people we see wandering the streets during the night. Though most of the time those kinds of people have just been drinking; not all that many opportunities in the textile district to get your hands on drugs. Makes sense if she's from Six then; if they make medicine, who _knows_ what kind of stuff they have over there.

For a second, the two of us continue to watch Londyn, back to the sweet, innocent little blind girl who apparently had a wonderful, but difficult life back home and who just wishes she could go back to her loving father and not face the unknown horrors of the arena. Whatever she's actually like, she's a pretty good actress; doubly so if she can manage to convince the Capitolites every whimper and tear she sheds is genuine (mind you, considering their collective mental capacities probably reach the same levels as _my_brain's state when I'm drunk, this might not be so hard). Her act goes on until Caesar realises that it's time to wrap the interview up, and he thanks her profusely for coming onto the show (because you know, she had a choice). "I can assure you, we'll all be rooting for you in the arena Londyn. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

It's only at that moment were her act nearly collapses; her pathetic expression shifts somewhat as she opens her mouth, the first syllables of some sort of cheeky insult forming, but she quickly manages to stop herself and nods quietly instead, allowing herself to be meekly led off by the same Peacekeeper as before. Like Bastian though, the audience continues to clap long after she's gone, whispers and murmurs still zipping like lightning through the crowd, probably somewhere along the lines of "Oh, that _poor_ girl!" and "I hope she does alright in the Games." But they quieten themselves soon after as Londyn's district partner rises and takes to the stage.

Apparently he's one Edrick Quillheart, and as Caesar begins to interview him on his life back in the district and such, it becomes pretty clear that he's either mute or has an extreme, extreme case of shyness. He must be answering Caesar's questions because the man jumps from one to another as though he's received a response, but between the quiet tone and the stuttering I can barely hear anything at all.

"Edrick, you seem like a wonderful man; any friends back home?" Caesar asks, grinning.

Unfortunately, it appears we'll never find out because the only thing I can hear is indecipherable murmuring. I glance at the tributes on either side of me and by the way they seem to be straining their ears I can tell they're having a bit of a problem listening as well. Eventually, Caesar moves on to asking him about his family, but when that's answered with _more_ indistinct whispers, I finally lose my patience. "Oi! Speak up!"

Well, the muttering stops – mind you, so does every other noise as the audience goes completely silent, Edrick, Caesar and pretty much everyone else turning towards me, shocked and surprised looks on their faces. Hmm, could it be that interrupting the interviews is not a good idea? Oops . . . well, it _seemed_ like a fine plan at the time. But that was probably just the alcohol talking. I throw my hands up in an innocent gesture and attempt to casually turn away and cover my face with one hand, hoping they'll just forget it and go back to the interview. Not that I'm embarrassed; but there _is _the Peacekeeper still standing by Londyn, glaring at me as though I've just interrupted something sacred. For the briefest moment, hope grows inside me as I contemplate the possibility of being kicked out of these endless interviews for my outburst; but no, apparently they're willing to excuse it. Damn. Hey, maybe if I tried _again_ . . .

"I _said_," Edrick repeats in a tone that sounds mightily ticked off (yet thankfully easily understandable), "I live by myself. My parents and I don't exactly get along."

"I'm sorry. Why might that be?" Caesar asks.

"Is it because they didn't get you what you wanted for your birthday?" Little Caesar interrupts. "That happened to me once. I wanted this awesome new gaming system, but all I got was a bigger television! I was so mad."

The audience laughs as Caesar Sr. blushes, no doubt at the memory of the huge temper tantrum his son must have thrown on the occasion. Meanwhile, Edrick just sits there, staring at the boy and seemingly trying to understand what he means. I don't blame him; gaming system? What, is that some sort of new way to watch the Hunger Games? Hell if I know.

The interview continues, with Edrick mostly steering the conversation away from his parents and the rest of the members of his district and the reason why he got voted in, which is most likely due to the hatred the former two subjects felt for him. Caesar might not be able to pick it up, but the rest of us can see it pretty clearly – after all, most of these tributes (minus the Careers, of course) were sent into these Games for the same reason; nobody liked them. And clearly most of them aren't alright with it, hence the avoidance of the topic. Of course, the exception to this rule currently sits before you in the District 8 female's chair; obviously the reason I was voted in was because everyone just loved me to pieces.

Surprisingly, I manage to stomach a lot more of the interview than I originally thought; it's only when Caesar attempts to ask about Edrick's hobbies and said tribute diverts the attention and avoid responding _yet again _that I let out a groan, attracting the attention of my district partner once more. "Tell me, Damian," I say, sinking low in my seat and staring dully at Mr You're-Never-Going-To-Find-Out-Anything-Personal-About-Me Quillheart. "Why are we here?"

Damian frowns, probably assuming that my question is a result of drinking too much, which is causing my brain to start forgetting things. Totally not true. Sort of . . . "Because I'm pretty sure a Peacekeeper might try and shoot us if we left."

I roll my eyes. "But what's the point of even keeping us here in the first place? Why are we being forced to sit through this torture?"

"To give us an edge over our opponents; learn more about them. And if you decided to pay attention, it might actually help in the arena."

"That's just it, though! We're notlearning _anything_! We're just learning which tributes are good liars and which aren't." My point is proven as Caesar asks if Edrick has a "special someone" waiting for him at home, making the District 6 male hesitate before quickly saying that there's one girl named Aly who's his best friend, but nothing more. "I mean, come on, we're not getting to know these people at all."

"You know, it's often the things that aren't said that tell you the most," Damian says, glancing out at me from under his hood, which is made of thousands of tiny needles (our stylists, still choosing to go with the gruesome theme they had for the chariot rides, decided to make us look like weird, mutant patchwork doll things, with squares of fabric attaches all over the place and looking like it'd been sewn onto our skin. As for the hair accessories, Damian had the weird hood thing while my stylist had finally managed to pull my coils of knots into something that could potentially resemble a bun, with a pair of giant sewing scissors attached over head so that the points stuck out at the bottom while the handles were visible at the top. Damian believes our stylists are insane, but I just think they're like me; flat-out drunk when they decided to make the clothes).

"What is that, some kind of thief's proverb?" I slouch down lower in my chair, trying to drone out Caesar's relentless, interviewing voice.

"So how would _you_ suggest we go about getting to know other tributes then?" he asks sarcastically.

"By having actual _conversations _that are _interesting_ instead of listening to people go on and on about their boring lives." An idea pops into my head suddenly, the sort of idea most people would only get when they're _really_ intoxicated. "Like this." I turn away from Damian and to the boy from Seven sitting next to me, who seemed to be watching us out of the corner of his eye anyways. "Hi," I say briskly, trying to keep the hiccups and laughs out of my voice as I attempt to maintain a straight face and stretch my hand out towards him. "Anya Powers, District 8 female."

The kid looks at me for a moment, as though he's trying to figure out if I'm drunk or crazy or both, but then he grins slightly and shakes my hand. "Yeah, I know you. You're the chick who threw up during the reapings."

I turn back to my own district partner, who's currently shaking his head as though he can't believe what an idiot I'm being. But hey, this is a better way to spend the interviews than actually bothering to _watch_ them. "Damian, look, I'm famous!"

"Fantastic," he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes and I turn back to the District 7 male, who seems to be enjoying our little exchange. "So, want my autograph?" I ask.

"I think I'm good," he answers. "Though I'm sure it'd be a better present than the one you left the escort."

I snort, earning myself another glare from the Peacekeeper, who looks like he's seriously debating the idea of coming over here and shutting us up if we get too loud. I try to silence my chuckles and lower my voice to a whisper. "I like you, kid."

He smiles and extends his own hand. "Jonas."

We shake again just as Edrick's buzzer goes off and he gets up to return to his seat, while Jonas's district partner rises from her own, silvery dress shining slightly in the lights (though not as mesmerising as Bastian's cloak, thank goodness. At least I can actually_focus_ on her interview). My new acquaintance gives her a small, encouraging smile, but I don't think she manages to catch it; she seems to be too busy calming herself down, trying to get rid of the nerves as she crosses the distance to the stage. A few of the tributes down the line who seem to have decided that since we've been having little side-conversations and getting away with it, they might as well too, stop the whispered murmurs as they watch her intently as she goes to sit with Caesar. Oh, wonderful; another "special" tribute I'm supposed to know about. Addict? Psycho? Damn it, why is this stuff so freaking hard to remember? I lean over to Jonas and whisper, "What's important about her?"

He frowns for a second, then seems to take note of other people watching the "beautiful Alexis Spurling" as introduced by Caesar. "She's got this little phobia of sharp things. Remember in training?"

"Uhhhhh . . . remember what?"

"She sort of freaked out near all the weapons stations, attacked a guy." Jonas looks at me. "It was a bit hard to miss. Where were you?"

"Trying to figure out how to sneak alcohol from the Gamemakers' table," Damian answers for me and I glare at him, though in my state the intimidation factor probably isn't working all that well.

"It was _one time_. Jeez."

"You _tried_ one time. I believe you also came up with many plans that you never got to execute."

"Way to spend your training days wisely," Jonas says, chuckling.

"Oh, shut up and listen to the interviews," I say back, turning away from the two snickering boys on either side of me to watch the red-headed girl currently in conversation with Caesar.

"So Alexis, a smart, kind girl like you must have some friends back at home, eh?"

Alexis blushes slightly. "Um, actually . . . no, not really."

Caesar gasps in shock as though it's unthinkable that no one could possibly like this tribute back home. Honestly, I'm surprised he can still manage to _act_ surprised after hearing the same answer again and again. The districts were voting off people to go die; obviously they weren't going to pick someone anybody _liked_. But of course, Caesar finds a way to spin it. "More of a family girl then, am I right?"

"W-well, I never used to get along with my brother all that well, but he came to me during the goodbyes and said . . ." She peters off, trying to keep her voice level.

"Yes?" Caesar asks gently.

"He just apologised for everything and told me that he . . . he really wants me to come back."

The audience lets out one collective "Aww" as Caesar places one hand on his heart, using the other to wipe away yet another fake tear. "Beautiful, beautiful," he murmurs. "The bond between a brother and sister is strong, yes?" Alexis nods slowly. "So is it just you and your brother then? Any parents or other siblings?"

"It's just the three of us: Lucas, me and our mother. But before . . ." Alexis bites her lip, closing her eyes and trying to calm herself while Caesar waits patiently; little Caesar seems to be semi-interested, but his eyes look a bit glazed over. "I had another brother. M-Marcus." The tremble in her voice is unmistakable on that last word, and of course Caesar doesn't hesitate to press her further about it.

"And what happened to him?"

"We were working in the forest one night. He was training me to work with an a- . . . he was teaching me the typical work of District 7. But then out of nowhere this a-axe . . . it . . ." She stutters into silence, looking very much as though she's trying to hold on to the few strands of sanity she has left and no amount of coaxing from Caesar can get her to continue her story.

Finally, after what seems like a whole minute of the audience sit and watch this girl wrestle with whatever problem's going on her brain, she opens her mouth and tries to start again. "He d-died, in the woods that night. All thanks to some irresponsible teenager."

"It must be hard," Caesar says.

Alexis nods and shortly after, her buzzer goes. The Capitol gives another cacophonous round of applause as she begins to make her way back to her seat, looking more than happy to collapse into it and never have to speak again. Meanwhile, Jonas makes his way towards the stage and Caesar doesn't hesitate to start yet _another_ interview rolling.

"Welcome, Jonas Emerson!" Caesar says as the boy takes a seat across from him. "I love your shirt, by the way."

Said article of clothing is brown, somewhat tree-like in design and altogether dull, but of course that doesn't stop our charismatic interviewer. Seems his way of making tributes feel at ease is by complimenting them all on something they neither chose nor wished to wear. But Jonas merely responds with, "Thanks. Nice hair."

Whether the comment was genuine or not, Caesar still pretends to blush, one hand rising to the tuft of crimson on his forehead. "Oh, thank you. My son picked the colour out this year," he adds, smiling affectionately at Caesar Jr.

"Yeah, I could tell."

This sets off a few snickers up and down the line of tributes, but neither Caesar nor the Capitol audience pick up on what was most likely intended as an insult. Instead, little Caesar looks up at Jonas with a huge grin and says, "You like it?"

"Sure," Jonas answers. "To _dye_ for."

The rest of the interview continues on in a similar fashion, Caesar asking questions, Jonas avoiding responses by making up some sort of sarcastic comeback that never fails to be completely lost on the Capitol citizens and taken as a genuine comment. Which makes me laugh doubly as hard; but at least with this interview, there's reasons for other tributes to snicker, so I'm not the only one awkwardly bursting into random, drunken chuckles. Thank goodness, because I don't think my giggles during those oh-so-inappropriate moments such as, say, telling Caesar your father accidentally killed a bunch of people were appreciated. Subconsciously, I glance down the line of tributes at Bastian, but he seems intent on the interview presently happening, looking like he's committing every detail to memory. _Probably so he can write it down in his little notebook token later, _I think, chuckling to myself. _Then again, could just be that he wants to know his opponents well, which might be a good thing to do if you want to, oh, I don't know, survive._

Yeah, well, big whoop. I think I already went over the whole "these interviews don't teach us anything" principle. Admittedly, when Jonas and I had that short conversation, we didn't really talk about much more than, well, my drinking habits (seems to have come up _a lot_ these past few days), but hey, I think I deserve points for attempting to communicate while extremely intoxicated and with a rapidly diminishing attention span. Besides, it's not exactly like I'm getting to know him any better during the interview.

"You know, Jonas, I couldn't help noticing that you and the mayor share the same last name," Caesar says, casually eyeing the tribute. "Are you two, by any chance, related?"

There's a slight pause, then Jonas just grins and shakes his head. "Nah, it's a coincidence. Emerson's a pretty common name over there. You know, like the John Smith of District 7."

"Who's John Smith?" little Caesar asks.

_Nice attempt, Caesar, nice attempt,_ I think, shaking my head as the interviewer stops to explain to his son what "John Smith" means, while the young boy just answers with, "Well, the name sounds _dumb_." I guess they haven't given up yet on trying to get details about tributes' lives out into the open, but that's pretty hard when most of these kids are still coming to terms with the fact that the population of their district hated them enough to send them into these Games. Aside from the Careers, no one seems to want to talk. And as Jonas deflects yet another question and receives more chuckles from tributes and laughs that clearly mean they have no idea what's going on from the Capitol, I snicker, thinking, _Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson: 1_

"So he's not related to this John Smith . . . John Emerson . . . what was it?"

"It's _Mayor_ Emerson of District 7, son," Caesar says, patting his son's head as a reward for his effort. "And he was just joking." The attention focuses back on Jonas, who was apparently content to sit for awhile and let them talk, fidgeting slightly in a way that seems almost as if he's playing some sort of imaginary instrument. "The two of you are related, am I right?" Before the boy can answer with what will no doubt be another comment that would confuse the younger kid to know end, Caesar quickly adds, "It must have been hard for him to say goodbye to his son."

"Well, I'll admit, I have met different people who I'd _much_ rather say goodbye to," Jonas says with a pointed glance at Caesar that once again no one seems to pick up. The audience still gives a half-hearted laugh anyways, though a flicker of disappointment runs across the interviewer's face. Seems like he's running out of ways to get Jonas to open up.

_Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson: 2_

"Why don't you tell us about things you do for fun back home?"

"Well, half of its probably illegal, and I don't think the other half is suitable for the ears of children under 15."

Another laugh, another slightly confused look on Caesar's face as he tries to figure out whether Jonas is lying which, judging by the smirk tugging at the corner of the tribute's lips, I'm guessing he is. _Caesar Flickerman: 0, Jonas Emerson . . . _Damn it, what number was I at? Freaking addled brain cells.

Doesn't matter though because a few seconds later Jonas's buzzer goes and he tips the audience and Caesar a two-fingered, sarcastic salute before rising from his chair, leaving a very relieved-looking interviewer and his confused son behind. Probably hoping that the next tribute won't be as reluctant to talk about their personal life – or rather, hoping that they won't be as good at avoiding the topic. It'd be kind of funny to watch him try and deal with that again. I glance down the line of tributes, trying to identify which is going next. Who . . .?

Crap, right; my turn. It registers in my brain just as Jonas reaches his seat to sit down. He gives me a quick, mischievous grin as I get up and start walking towards the stage. Yeah, when I'd had those few drinks a little while ago, I kind of hadn't downed them with the idea that I'd have to _walk_ in mind. The ground seems to be doing this weird sort of bobbing thing but, impressively, I don't actually trip until I'm nearly at my spot.

"Careful there," Caesar says, reaching an arm out to help the empty seat. "Little off-balance tonight?"

"Yeah, kind of feeling tipsy," I reply and the audience laughs at that. Hey, they think I'm funny! Never mind the fact that they've been laughing themselves silly for most of the evening (I have the feeling I'm not the _only_ drunk one out here). Everything's going according to the plan; at least, as much as things can when I don't actually _have_ a plan. I know, I know, what happened to the entire day supposedly spent coming up with my interview angle? Hehe, funny story.

"_Alright, I've already got some ideas planned out for us to try today, but I want to check if you have anything else in mind," my mentor, Taf Burming says, slamming a book down on his desk as he speaks. What, has someone actually bothered to write an "Interview Angles for Dummies?" "So, what were your plans for your angle?"_

"_Uh," I say, still staring at the gargantuan book as though it'll hold the answers to the world's questions – and more importantly, my mentor's. "Actually, I was kind of thinking of just having a few drinks beforehand."_

_Taf glares at me; though really, he should have been expecting that as my answer. "First off, I said no drinking."_

"_Yeah, and those words broke my heart," I say back, sniffing and pretending to look traumatised as I touch a hand to my chest._

"_Don't be idiotic; you think I don't know you've been breaking the only real rule I laid out for you?"_

" _. . . If I say yes, would you start enforcing said rule harder?"_

_Another deepening of his permanent frown, another glare shot my way; honestly, does this man really think he's being intimidating? I spent 13 years of my life putting up with my mother's evil eye, thank you very much; that woman could burn holes through your SOUL. "The only reason I let it pass was because I was hoping you would exercise some sort self-restraint yourself."_

_I snort. Self-restraint? Exercise? Me? Obviously this man hasn't spent this past week getting to know Anya Powers. "By all means, laugh now," Taf says, eyeing me carefully. "Because I can guarantee you won't be in the arena."_

"_Blah, blah, blah, that's TWO days from now. There's still plenty of time for me to procrastinate quivering in fear."_

_He stares at me for another moment and I begin to get the uncomfortable feeling that his gaze, while not burning holes into my soul, is analysing every single square inch of it. "Fine," he says finally, sitting back down in his chair. "Interview angles. Let's try a-"_

"_Look, this is a waste of time," I say, crossing my arms and slouching in my chair. "I can't act."_

"_Well, you're life depends on it," Taf answers, frowning at me once more. As an experiment, I try glaring back; come on Anya, harness you're inner evil eye, narrow those grey orbs, make him feel intimidated!_

_Yeah, probably just look like I'm having some sort of eye spasm._

" _. . . And if you're sober, you might actually be able to accomplish something," Taf finishes before glancing back at me, no doubt waiting for my thoughts on his little lecture._

"_Sorry, what?"_

_He takes a deep, slow breath, as though trying to get all of his irritation out in a single exhale; and I admit, part of me does feel sorry for the man that he has to deal with ME as a tribute. "Pay. Attention."_

"_I was! But you said something about no drinking and after that I chose to tune everything out."_

_His hands rise to his temples as he slowly massages them; another gesture I've seen done many times after, oh, every conversation we've had. "You're not going to be prepared for this."_

"_Then just let me drink," I say, earning yet another glare. "Look, I know you seem to have some sort of almighty problem with alcohol, but if I have a few shots or something before I go on, I'll have a foolproof excuse if anything bad or rebellious or stupid comes out of my mouth."_

_The frown is still present but there's a moment, a small moment, where I see something flicker in his eyes. "You won't get any sponsors that way," he says swiftly._

_I shrug. "Whatever. Doubt I'd be getting them after my little show at the reapings anyways."_

_There's a long, silent pause where he does that creepy, analysing-soul thing again, staring me up and down and taking in my altogether too eager face. What can I say; it'd be nice to get this guy off my back about drinking and show him one of the many pluses of liquor. Then, ever so slowly, he opens his mouth to speak. "So, your interview strategy . . . is going to be to blame everything on the alcohol." He sighs. "That's going to be interesting."_

I grin at the memory, nearly letting out a chuckle before I remember where I am; right, live TV, millions of people watching and all that. I drag myself back to the present just in time to see Caesar Jr.'s apprehensive little face as he eyes me warily. "Are you going to throw up again?"

Alright; _now_ I can laugh. And so does most of the Capitol audience as well. But I've got a show to put on, so I quickly try and subside the chuckles and say, "Nah, of course not! Gotta have some new material to show you guys; don't want to bore you, after all."

Little Caesar takes that into consideration, thinking it over before allowing himself to scoot a little closer to me. "So what're you going to do this time?"

"Oh, I don't know. Dance? Somersault? Juggle?"

"You juggle?" Caesar Jr. asks.

"Yeah, scratch that; don't think I'm coordinated enough tonight."

Most of the Capitol audience has caught on by now as to my current state of mind and they let out loud laughs at my words; see? I _knew_ drinking was the answer to my problem! Always is. "Why did you throw up in the first place?" Young Caesar asks again (his father seems content to let him get some interviewing experience for a few moments). "Where you sick?"

"No, no; not quite," I say, grinning as more chuckles emit from the audience. "See, this man knows what I'm talking about." I point to a guy near the front row who seems to be absolutely peeing himself with laughter; I'm thinking that we have a few things in common tonight. The cameras pan over to the guy I'm talking about before going back to us, just in time to catch Little Caesar frown and say, "I don't get it."

"You're a little too young yet, son," Caesar answers, patting him on the head with a smile. Unfortunately this does little to pacify the boy, who seems on the verge of temper tantrum meltdown here, so I decide it'd be a good idea to add to Caesar's words.

"Don't worry, kid. Come back to me in ten or so years and I'll let you in on our secret."

Little Caesar looks at me for a second, then grins and nods. "'Kay."

The audience bursts into laughter once more as Caesar seems torn between chuckling and seeming absolutely mortified at the prospect of having his offspring come to _me_ for advice on life. "I hope you won't be teaching my son any bad habits, Miss Powers," he says with a smile.

"Perish the thought!" I say, clapping one hand on my knee. "Everyone knows I only take up good habits."

Of course this gets another laugh and we're forced to wait for the audience to calm down once more. Huh, this isn't so bad after all; between educating Little Caesar on the ways of the adult world and stopping for everyone to react once in a while, I won't have to do much talking (or thinking) at all. This thing might go by quicker than I thought; and yeah, I _might_ be kind of corrupting a Capitol child in the process, but eh, kid needs to live a little.

"So, any other fun habits or hobbies you used to do back home?" Caesar asks, seeming intent on bringing the conversation back to where it should be. "Preferably child-appropriate ones?"

That earns a few chuckles and I pause for a second, trying to come up with what Gerier, Losan, Merie and I did for fun, other than drink. Yeah, I'm not getting anything. "Well, I do enjoy . . . sleeping."

Caesar laughs. "And how many hours do you sleep a day?"

"Oh, only four or five."

"Only?" Caesar asks, cheery expression faltering once more into one of confusion. "I thought you said you enjoyed sleeping."

"I do. That's why I also sleep 12 hours a night."

The volcano of laughter erupts once more, with a few added cheers and claps from what I assume to be the more lethargic of the Capitol population. I grin and nod at a few of them, sharing the bond of complete and total laziness. _You know, these Capitol people aren't actually all bad._

To repeat: incredibly drunk. So don't hold any of my crazy, intoxicated thoughts against me.

We pass around a few more random comments that mostly end up linking back to my drinking (hey, I don't know much else, alright?) until Caesar finally decides to try and put things back on a more serious track. "What about any family you have back home?"

Surprisingly, the question does bug me as much as it might normally; another pleasant side-effect of alcohol. "Well, Caesar, there's not much to tell. I mean, they're nowhere as cool as me."

More laughs, but they end quicker; guess everyone really does want to hear about my family members. _Sigh_. Ah well, better get it over with. "Well, there's my dad."

"Yes," Caesar says, waiting for more info. "And what's he like?"

"Bald. Okay, that's not exactly fair; bald_ing_. But he's getting there." I let the audience laugh, hoping they'll go on for a while and get me out of talking for a few more seconds. Yes, yes . . . _Damn_. "Other than that, there isn't much to him."

"Oh, there must be something," Caesar says, prodding the microphone closer to me.

"Nope, I can't really think of anything . . ." I peter off, waiting for Caesar to ask another question, but he's still sticking intently to the Dad topic. Probably thinks there's some sort of huge scandal behind it. Well, if he wants more, he'll get more; suddenly, I snap my fingers and in Caesar's excitement, he leans forward and we almost bonk heads. "I know," I say triumphantly. "He has glasses!"

Obviously not what Caesar was looking for, but that's just too bad for him; honestly, I _would _try to think up some gigantic, sad and tragic story involving Dad but I think I've already made my views on _thinking_ pretty clear. I glance over at the interviewer, crossing my fingers that he won't try and continue along this subject and, thankfully, he seems to get the idea. "Then what about your mother?"

On second thought, I think I'd rather talk more about Dad.

"Eh, she's not really a part of my life," I say casually (at least I'm hoping it sounds casual). "Then again, she isn't really part of _any_ sort of life."

Caesar frowns for a moment, the gears in his brain almost visible as they take in my words. Then it dawns on him. "You mean . . .?"

"She's dead. Gone. Up in that big old Capitol city in the sky."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He pats my hand comfortingly while I try to resist the urge to reach out and pat _him_. On the head. Really, _really_ hard. Anyone remember my feelings on expressions of sympathy? "And, if you don't mind me asking, how did it happen?"

"I _do_ mind, actually," I answer, my voice sounding too loud and harsh in my ears. It takes a second for my alcohol addled brain to process my words, and then another to take in Caesar's expression and the silence that's stricken the audience. _Crap, way to completely kill your interview, Anya. Fix it!_

_How?_

_What's your interview strategy, stupid?_

_Oh yeah . . ._

"I'm sorry, what were we talking about?" I ask suddenly, hiccupping for effect. "My attention span has been shrinking all evening. This was working," I add, pointing to my mouth before gesturing to my head. "But the mind was off on a _really_ extended vacation."

Caesar laughs and all of the previous tension vanishes. "Don't worry, I'm sure everyone is a little nervous tonight."

I glance at him with a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, Caesar, I think everyone knows that it's not the nerves causing my lack of concentration tonight."

If there was any awkward strain left over from my previous words, it disappears now as the audience laughs easily again. Whew, disaster aborted; thank goodness. Surprisingly, as I scan the audience, I manage to pick out Taf, of all people, sitting with the others mentors and, of course, still wearing his ever-present, disapproving frown. But as our eyes lock he makes another gesture; a nod. Not a glare or an irritated crossing of the arms or a weary rub of the forehead, but a nod. Like he thinks I've actually done something right this evening. Huh; never thought I'd live to see _that_ day.

"So, Anya, any final words before we part ways?" Caesar asks, glancing down at his watch.

"Right, yes. Um, stay in school, no underage drinking, that sort of thing," I say, glancing at little Caesar as the audience chuckles once more. "Oh, and prepare to see some serious Anya-style in the arena."

"What's Anya-style?" Caesar Jr. asks.

_Drinking, making sarcastic remarks, and generally acting like an idiot._

"Fighting, kicking butt, generally being awesome." I wink at the kid. "That sort of thing."

"Oh." Little Caesar thinks for a second, then looks back at me. "Do I have Anya-style?"

Probably one of my most genuinely astonished laughs just happened right there. "Sure, kid. Why not?"

He beams up at me and I chuckle again, just as the buzzer goes. Well, that honestly didn't take as long as I'd expected. _And it was kind of fun too,_ I think as I leave the stage and pass Damian on the way to my seat, listening to him start the interview off behind me. From the sounds of it, he's playing up the smooth-talking, mysterious thief, but I can tell as I sit back down that he's still not enjoying having to be interviewed for the entertainment of others. Not exactly a people person, my district partner.

"Welcome, Damian! I think everyone's been excited to find out more about you." As if on cue, a few fanatical Capitol girls start whispering excitedly, and I swear one of them swoons as Damian starts to speak.

"Well, don't get too happy; you still have to get the answers out of me," Damian says with a smirk.

Caesar gives a good-natured groan. "Not going to make my job easy for me too, are you?" The audience laughs; guess they weren't entirely oblivious if they managed to pick up the fact that Caesar's now had at least three tributes in a row who don't enjoy talking about their personal lives. I swear though, I've got nothing wrong with my personal life; nothing at all. I just believe that your mouth was put on your face for one purpose and one purpose alone; to inhale alcoholic beverages. Anything else it tries to do is a waste of time.

"Of course not," Damian answers. "Where'd be the fun in that?"

The interview goes on, and it's obvious from the get go that Caesar's going to get even less personal info from Damian than he did from me. Ask him what he does for a living and he quickly changes the subject; most likely because it's illegal and punishable by death. Then again, not exactly like they could do anything if they found out, now could they? I guess another bonus of this "Quarter Quell" for the President and his little Gamemaker cronies was that they can easily get rid of all the assumed criminals, psychos and general threats to the society of Panem; judging by the interviews that have gone on so far, that makes up about half us tributes. The other half, of course, just gets sentenced to death for being unlikeable to a rather large group of district people.

"What was that cool animal thing that was on TV during your reapings?" It seems Little Caesar is also tiring of the way his father's questions were getting answered, because he seems to have decided it's time to take matters into his own hands.

"Bandit?" Damian asks, and for a moment he's actually thrown off by the boy's interruption. But then, quickly as it left, the concealing façade slips back over his face. "He's my pet ferret."

"Cool!" Little Caesar shouts, and the audience has to laugh as his whole face lights up with the loveable adoration that little kids seem to get for small animals. "I want one!"

"I don't think your mother would be too pleased with that," Caesar says, smiling and his son's ecstatic grin slowly disappears as the audience gives off another collective, sympathetic "aww." "So, Damian, what about _your _mother? What's she like?"

"That's not really any of your business, is it Caesar?" Damian says, his tone suddenly turning ice cold. The interviewer falters for a moment, but throws on a big smile and shakes his head. "Intent on keeping secrets, eh, Damian?" he asks. "You'll have to answer sometime."

And they're off again with their question-asking and avoidance tactics. Jeez, how come my district partner could get away with being all intimidating and I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it, while I had to make an absolute idiot out of myself and pretend to be too drunk to know what I was saying? Admittedly, that was the entire reason I'd taken the drinks in the first place, as a scapegoat for whatever nasty nonsense might come out of my mouth, but still. How come I can't be the brooding, mysterious thief?

As is common of someone who can't concentrate for more than five seconds, my gaze begins to wander over the audience and down the line of tributes, until I make eye contact with someone I wasn't expecting to; Erik Fiske of District 11. Our encounter during training was . . . interesting, to say the least. I don't really know exactly what to make of it; we were acting pretty friendly afterwards but I was only really there and having a conversation so that I had a legitimate excuse not to train (or rather, pretend to). But I've been beginning to think that, maybe, he sees me in some sort of alliance with him. At first, the idea turned me off; not only did I not really want to have to deal with someone with me in the arena, but alliances require planning and planning requires thinking and thinking requires . . . well, I think you all know where this goes. But the harsh reality is, the Games start _tomorrow_. I can't exactly hide from that reality anymore. _Not that I was ever hiding before,_ I think quickly, turning my attention back to the interviews in time to watch Damian harshly decline speaking about his father as well. _More . . . ignoring the situation._ Though it's going to be tough doing that tomorrow when I'm rising up on that metal plate and into an arena with 23 other kids out to kill me. And there's the fact that if, in about a day, I'm not, in fact, dead, then I'm going to be going through some _major_ withdrawal. Maybe I should have taken my mentor's advice and stayed away from the drinks this week after all.

Ah, well, too late for that now; besides, I've improvised my whole life. I'm pretty sure, if need be, I can improvise my death as well – though hopefully it won't come to that. But as for plans, whatever; if Erik wants to ally with me in the arena then what the heck, we'll ally. And we'll kick butt too. I'll just leave all the planning, strategising and overall thinking to him.

_And whatever happens, it's sure to be interesting, _I think, watching Damian rise swiftly as his buzzer goes. _Interesting indeed._


	36. A Drop Goes a Long Ways

**Can you feel it getting closer? Launch is on Halloween from our resident pyschopath Jett! XD**

**Also as a note, because of how long these games are promising to be try-outs will likely not be till January at least!**

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**Juniper Harris of District 9**

**District 9-12 Interviews by Holly Blossom**

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**_"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"_**

**_- William Shakespeare_**

* * *

My body burns with heat. There are too many people packed in here, too many people casting warmth and lighting this place up. After sixteen interviews my thoughts have drifted slightly, fretting over survival, over the arena, over my sense of self. I glance towards the crowd, the potential sponsors that could very well save my life.

I can just feel their jewel encrusted eyes sizing me up, raking their plastic gazes over my skeletal figure, harshly whispering to their companions about the lack of any real protein or muscle on the slender, malnourished frame before them. A cold trickle runs it's nasty claws over the bumps of my spine. I guess to them I am nothing more than a hunk of meat, nothing more than a pawn in their games. I am not human to them. I am a toy.

But really they are the ones who aren't human. What kind of sick, twisted people can actually enjoy watching kids kill each other on live television? It's not a game, not like they think, it's a reality. They don't seem to understand that. They understand nothing of this world.

They don't know of hunger or pain or desperation. They do not know what it feels like to cling to life by your fingertips, barely living from one day to the next. They don't know of human struggle and emotion, the ragged happiness when your stomach finally feels full, the longing when there is no food. They know nothing. They are the ones who aren't human.

They are the ones that should die.

Sometimes I can barely stand it. I am consumed by nightmares. Waking in them, sleeping in them, living in them. Every time I close my eyes I see my family, their gaunt faces and their pleading eyes so hungry that I can feel their stomach's rumble even from here. Every time I sleep my dreams wind into longing sickness, searing fevers that burn my eyelids and pound like poison through my veins. Sometimes I am dying, feeling the last ebb of my soul fading away, and sometimes I am watching someone else die, watching their eyes as they flatten and stare into nothingness.

And sometimes I am killing.

Deep in the brackish depths of my heart, I fear I'll turn into the Capitol once I enter the arena. When I come out of these Games I at least want to recognize myself.

I don't ever want to be a monster.

I am shaken from my dark, gritty thoughts by the sudden screeching of my name. I seem to faintly recognize the voice as Caesar Flickerman's. With a jolt I realize it must be my turn to be interviewed. Time to put on my mask.

I splay my twitching hands over the forest green satin of my dress, little olive birds lost in an endless forest. I hear the crowd cheer, howling and whistling like rabid wolves, snarling with their pink mouths, swiping at the air with clawed paws. There they are hunting birds, young birds, who can't yet spread their wings and fly away.

My hands clench at my side, nearly convulsing with pulsing nerves and shocking fear. I have to take a deep breath to calm myself, steady the loud screeching of my heart as it tries to take flight and leave my rib cage.

Exhale...inhale...exhale...inhale.

Somehow I manage to glide towards Caesar, without tripping, passing out or trembling like a miniature earthquake. I try not to focus on anything, try to keep my eyes pinned to the long, tight skirt of my dress, but of course my eyes do not follow my command. They immediately stray towards Caesar and his decidedly freakish appearance.

He's of course in his customary blue sky suit with its twinkling stars and perfect hemming. His face, as usual, is painted a phantom white. Features such as his nose and mouth almost seem to float awkwardly out of place on the ghostly landscape glowing up at me. He's dyed his hair, lips and eyelids again, creating a decidedly more evil appearance this year with deep, blood red. The colour reminds me of scars, of crusty scabs forming over old wounds. It reminds me of pain.

"Aren't you looking lovely tonight, Miss Juniper Harris," Caesar booms as soon as the cheering dissipates. With his microphone hanging from limp, spider fingers, he leans towards me conversationally. My skin crawls with phantom chills, the shadows of old fears dancing up and leaping through my heart.

His closeness is a strange, unsettling thing to me. Back in District 9 no one ever came near me, always afraid to associate with an impoverished girl from the Deform slums. It was like they thought poverty was a contagious disease, not a circumstance Even other Deforms never touched me unless I first gave them permission to do so. How can Caesar feel so comfortable by being so close to me, a stranger? Why do _I _let it bother me so? Why do I just want to run away and hide from this man's strange, ghostly touch?

I try and get myself under control, try and get back into the feel of my angle. I manage to plaster a mask of stone onto my face and crack my red painted lips into an alluring smile, "But Caesar," I purr, running the palm of my hand along my satin covered body, "I always look amazing."

Whistles and cat calls, the shrill cries of animals before they finally capture their prey. The calls screech through the air and pierce the cloudy bubble of the stage like out of control hover crafts flying into enemy territory. For some reason Caesar's mini clone, Caesar Jr., finds this funny and giggles out loud. He tries to politely cover his mouth with one plump, white hand.

I freeze, ice slipping its chilly breath over my skin. How old is he? Ten, eleven maybe? Close to the same age as August then. I bet little Caesar gets whatever his tiny heart desires: food, clothes, toys, anything he could ever dream of having. He will never know hunger or pain or the desperation of trying to survive against all odds. He will know nothing of that, while my brother will never experience anything else.

Sometimes I want to smack life in the face and demand why she is so unfair.

Back on stage Caesar gestures towards the crowd, waving away the cheers with a good natured grin. He leans forwards to talk to me some more, his face breaking into his famous smile. His son mimics his movements as if tied to him with an invisible string. I shiver, but I can't back away, my back pressed tight into my chair.

"So, Juniper," Caesar begins, his bloody lined eyes flickering up to my empty face, "How has your stay in the Capitol been so far?"

I smile slightly, trying to act out my angle like my mentor, Saffy, told me to. It's difficult that's for sure. She wants me to be sexy and flirty, proud and aloof. Proud and aloof, that I can do. District 9 thought of me as nothing else. But how exactly do you act sexy and flirty? I've never really understood how some girls could make it seem so...natural. What are you supposed to do? Stick out your chest, wiggle your hips or just blatantly whip off all your clothes and walk around naked? For the first time in my life I suddenly wish I could navigate these unfamiliar waters more easily.

Ugh, I just want to gag myself right now and get this interview over with. I can't be alluring or sexy or whatever else you can possibly call it. I don't want to wear this dress any more, I don't want it's low collar that makes me feel exposed like a live wire. I don't want its tightness that makes me feel trapped. It's quite literally taking every fiber of my being not to throw up and run off this stage in anger and shame. Desperately I want to claw away all the cameras that have been constantly following me these past few days, the cameras that make me put on masks and try and forget myself. I want to slip off all those masks, pretend they never existed, and gather plants in the woods with Olivia or collect firewood for my family like I usually do. I just want to have the freedom of being myself again. But of course you can never get what you want. Life's like that, isn't it?

Instead of running away, like I so desperately want to, I fight through it, flicking my dark coils of hair over my shoulder. I may be playing this sexy thing over the top now, but I also run my tongue over the smooth pavement of my teeth. I've seen girls back home do the same thing to garner a boy's attention. Hopefully, the Capitol thinks saliva is sexy as well.

"My stay has been just great," I hum, gently running my fingers through my hair. Emerald nail polish glints like poisonous snakes through the dark strands, "I've especially enjoyed the food and of course meeting all of the _excellent_ citizens of the Capitol."

Caesar smiles at me, his ghost white teeth glinting beneath crimson lips like lost souls, "I'm assuming you don't have a special someone back at home?"

I wave him off with a gentle swish and swipe of bony fingers, "Of course not. I simply could not be tied down to _one_ boy."

"Well, what if he had a rope?" Caesar Jr. questions. He tips forward with an elbow slung casually across his knee. I've seen the exact same position mirrored over a hundred times by his father, "Could he tie you down then?"

I laugh at him, a true genuine laugh that froths unbidden from my throat. It sounds fake and forced among all this falseness and deceit, "Well maybe then. Maybe then he could tie me down."

Caesar Sr. is chuckling as well, his laughter a trombone in the middle of an empty auditorium. He waves the crowd for silence, flicking his wrist up and away as if something unpleasant is stuck to his sleeve.

"Now," he says, his legs twisting together in a knotted pretzel, "There's one last question I've been dying to ask you."

I raise an eyebrow in his direction, my hands clasping together in my lap. They twitch slightly as my pulse jiggles up and down. I feel as if they are cupping all my nerves and insecurities away in their hidden basin so no one can see them, "What would that be?"

Caesar glances towards the crowd, his attempt to raise the suspense painfully obvious, "What do you think of this year's hand-picked tributes?"

What _do_ I think of them? The Career pack definitely worries me, their brute strength and combat skills pathetically out-weighing my own. They are fast, they are strong and they will be tough to kill. Maybe I won't be able to kill them, maybe I physically can't kill them. Not unless I somehow manage to miraculously catch one of them off guard or alone and unprepared. Even then it would be tough to fight against their incredible skill. Hopefully, by the time I am forced into action, someone else will have taken them down.

But besides the Careers there are certain others who worry me as well. That red-headed girl, Atalanta, from five is deadly with a knife. Her throws always take my breath away because they are so perfect. Sometimes I even fear that she may even best the Careers in combat, but that could also be my over-active imagination going into over-drive. There's also Brennadon from three and Eric from eleven. Eric's _very _imposing with his brute strength and superior weapon handling. But even brute strength means nothing if you have no mind behind it. If he is intelligent, then he will be more of a competition then he already is, if he isn't...well there won't be any trouble tricking him. The question is: which is he?

Maeve from three and Lucian from twelve worry me as well. Maeve is...strange to say the least. But she could be hiding her skills and putting up a front to appear weak and crazy. I have seen that strategy work before in the arena. Lucian, on the other hand, doesn't look as strong as the other tributes, but I fear he may be hiding something as well. It wouldn't surprise me. He seems so...hollow and soulless. It's almost like he was born without emotion or even genuine care for people and their lives. He seems capable of doing _anything _to win.

If I had to pick the one tribute who set me on edge the most, it would be him. Him or maybe Jet. Both of them seem to be swimming a little in the deep end of the lake, if you know what I mean. There's just something there that doesn't quite seem right with them. Beneath their eyes something is growing, maliciously dancing a cold fury. They are genuinely the only tributes that ignite me in the dark, terrible fire of fear.

I turn towards Caesar and say nothing of what I am thinking, it's too dangerous to reveal anything to anybody. I gently press my lips together, smearing the red that has been painted there, and sneer up at his expectant face.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Caesar," I murmur, gently stretching myself forward. The very idea that I'm telling him a secret is absurd, after all the whole country of Panem is watching me right now, "If the tributes this year are meant to be the District's best, well, then...I'd hate to see their worst."

I swish my hair behind my shoulder, a heavy-lidded gaze glancing scornfully towards the tributes behind me, "At least we know District 9 was sending their best. I can't say the same about the rest."

The buzzer goes off then and I stand, sashaying my way back to the tribute bench, still trying not to trip on the satin of my dress, the too-tall heels that wobble under my quaking ankles. I hear cheers and hollers but I don't even look back to see the crowd's, or Caesar's, reactions to what I said. The noise level is enough for me to deduce whether or not my interview was well received.

Just as I am about to sit, Alaric passes me as he hurries onto the stage for his own interview. I look sharply in his direction, immediately noting the nervous way in which he is adjusting his tie, the lapels of his suit jacket. I feel the same nerves sending my fingers dancing across my hips. We lock eyes and I have just enough time to mouth, "Good luck, deaf boy." before he is gone and into the deadly spotlight.

I glance over to my left, feeling the eyes of the Careers snatching my way. Some look as if they're sizing me up, seeing if what I just said is bull or if I am truly a threat to their survival. Most of them seem to think the former, their eyes glazing over with boredom as they look away from me and focus their attention onto Alaric's interview. But Jet continues to train his dancing gaze onto me.

Looking at him seems to confirm my suspicions about him being unstable or volatile. There's just something there, something shimmering and stretching beneath those darkly, glazed eyes that just seems...off.

Afraid to appear weak, I stare right back at him. He keeps his dancing gaze trained on me, insulting me, tormenting me. Those eyes bring forth horrible images from my past: the sharp trill of Larks, ashen fingers igniting the sky and pain, terrible pain, electrifying my body. I am drowning in it, suffocating in its soot and fire and ash. Bile chokes my throat.

I can't take it anymore! I break eye-contact with Jet, flipping my hair over my shoulder to try and make it appear that I got bored instead of very, very frightened and disturbed. I gulp down the bile that had risen up my throat and turn my attention back to Alaric, away from the memories that are clogging my mind.

It's strange, yet despite the fact that Alaric and I come from two very different classes, his being the rich, upper class that I despise the most, we have somehow managed to form a tentative bond with each other. I wouldn't say its friendship...but we have agreed not kill each other in the arena if we should ever meet. That has to count for something...right?

And despite his numerous, yes numerous, flaws I have to reluctantly admit that Alaric's an alright guy. I could've had worse for a district partner.

...

You'll never hear me say that to his face.

On stage, Alaric relaxes into his chair, looking more at ease up there then I probably did. The mottled, blood coloured figure of Caesar tips towards him eagerly as if they already have a good repertoire going. Even Caesar Jr., who sometimes completely loses interest in some interviews he deems boring, leans forward enthusiastically as if Alaric has promised to buy him a present or possibly a new suit. He and his father do need an update.

"So Alaric," Caesar is saying, tapping the side of his knee with ghostly, spider fingers, "I think all of us here have been wondering about your name. How does it go?"

Alaric looks a little stunned by the question, but he quickly recovers, "Gabriel Alaric Pakalin Denovo." He chuckles, flashing the silver coins of his eyes out towards the crowd, "Many people have asked me about my name before."

"Is there a reason that it has to be so long?" Caesar Jr. asks, wrinkling his brow in confusion as if the very idea of having a long name is preposterous.

Alaric shrugs his shoulders, he himself perhaps not knowing why his name is so long and unnecessarily complicated, "It's tradition in District 9's upper class. I guess our last names are there to show us what families we come from...and our first names are there to match."

Caesar nods sagely, as if that explanation makes sense. Caesar Jr., however, still looks confused and ready to ask more questions about the issue. Fast as lightning, his father jumps in and asks another question before Caesar Jr. can even form his.

"Is it hard keeping track of all your names?" Caesar asks, wiggling his severely plucked eyebrows. Scraggly caterpillers. That will tempt out Alaric's answer.

Alaric laughs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. Saffy was right; the likable angle was a perfect match for him. I am constantly having to remind myself that he's just acting, "No, not really. After so long I've gotten used to it. The hard part is keeping track of my twelve sibling's names!"

Caesar blinks, his eyes expanding out of his face like someone's blowing them up with a pump. He blinks again, his tiny brain unable to process the fact that Alaric actually has twelve siblings. I guess it is pretty amazing. I only have two and keeping track of them is hard of enough. And they only have one name! It kind of makes me wonder how Alaric does it all.

With Caesar still not recovered, Caesar Jr., like a rancher trying to catch a runaway horse, pulls the reins back in and takes charge of the interview, "Twelve siblings, that's a lot.

Alaric nods, the corner of his mouth peeking up into a grin.

"Do you love them all?"

"Of course," Alaric breathes, his confidence and charm tarnishing away. In their place shines forth something more vulnerable and tender,"I care for my family very much. We stick together and help each other through all the tough times. Even...even when I," he taps his ear, the sharp tap of nail on plastic echoing through the silent stage, "I lost my hearing and needed hearing aids, they still stuck by me."

A breath of silence envelopes the crowd. Some people are pulling out tissues and dotting at turquoise eyes and bejeweled cheeks as if his tale is truly touching their hearts and not just their tear ducts.

I glance up at Alaric, the tender expressions of emotion casting shadows over the planes of his face. Something pangs in my chest, crying out for him and his helplessness. It's almost like I am under his spell too. But I remind myself that it's not a spell, it's not magic, it's an act. Alaric's just playing the Capitol, trying to make them like him. It's just a good thing he doesn't need to impress me.

Even Caesar dabs at his bloody eyes, trying to hold in the streams of water that threaten to ruin the landscape of his face. Having come out of his daze, he whispers hoarsely, "Despite your disability, Alaric, will you try and go home to them?"

"Yes," Alaric chokes out, clutching his chest like it physically hurts him to say these words, "After all, Caesar, the only disability in life is a bad attitude."

The buzzer blares and Alaric quietly makes his way back to the seating area. Out of my peripheral vision I can see the girl from ten, Pipper, rise and make her way towards Caesar for her own interview.

"You were playing them," I whisper harshly, snapping my eyes to Alaric, "Your emotion may have been real, but all you were really trying to do was engage their sympathies."

Alaric's eyes flip towards me like luminous moons, "You were playing the crowd too."

I don't even bother to feel insulted. I was. In fact I would be more insulted if he thought I would act like that for real, "At least I wasn't bringing my siblings into this mess."

Alaric pauses, running his fingers through his mousy hair. Drifting away, thinking about something too deep and emotional to express with me. His face is twisted into a tortured expression, "You'd do anything to return to your family, wouldn't you?"

I'm taken aback, but unlike Alaric I don't pause before saying my next words. My acidic tongue always has a comment snapping to get out, "Of course. What kind of question is that, Al?"

He twitches like I've just prodded him with an electrical current. The tender emotional mask he was wearing before is gone, replaced instead with a stony, uncomfortable one, "Please don't call me, Al."

I smirk wickedly at him, regaining some of my good humour at his discomfort, "Why? Does it annoy you, Al?"

His mouth twitches into a grimace, "Yes."

I pretend to pull a pen from thin air and mimic writing, swirling invisible letters into the invisible air, "Weakness discovered. Alaric hates being called Al. Could be used to greater potential in the arena."

"Seriously, Juniper? Do you-"

"Sssh," I say, slamming a hand over his mouth. I don't need to hear his protests, "Some of us actually want to watch the interviews, Al. Gather information on the other tributes and the likes."

I swear I feel his lips twitch under my hand, as if he is contemplating biting me. With sudden care I remove my fingers from his face and turn my attention to the interview at hand.

I don't really know much about this girl, Pipper. Ever since her Reaping she has been hiding in the shadow of Sean Armani, twin brother of last year's victor, Aleah Armani. She hasn't really stood out. Not in skill or charm or even looks. Maybe not particularly weak, but not particularly noticeable either.

Who knows, maybe she'll surprise me.

I look up at her. She's done up in a beautiful turquoise gown, tiers of blue satin ruffling over each other like waves. The dress is cinched at the waist, showing off her tiny figure. Rows of curls sprawl down her back, creeping over her eyes and hiding them like a mask. Her pale skin almost seems to glow in the harsh lights of the stage. Her freckles, and I can't help but compare them to my own, look like honey floating on creamy milk.

"How did you feel when you were voted in?" Caesar asks her, leaning forward tentatively as if he is afraid to touch her. I sniff. That bastard wasn't afraid to be near me.

Pipper shrugs her narrow shoulders, "I guess how everyone else felt."

Caesar blinks, not understanding her answer. I don't really understand it either. What game is she trying to play here?

"And how would that be?"

Again she just shrugs, inclining her head mysteriously towards Caesar. Her dark eyes flash with secrets, "You tell me."

"Oh, well, uhm," Caesar stutters, scratching his head and looking (for once) at a loss for words. He turns to his son as if thinking he will help him out of this dire situation.

Caesar Jr. looks at Pipper hopefully, perhaps thinking he'll succeed where his father failed, "Have you liked your stay at the Capitol?"

"Perhaps," Pipper replies, sweeping a pale hand through her thick hair, glancing at him from under her lashes, "Perhaps not."

Caesar Jr. looks at her with his large, child eyes. The red of his hair clouding over a thoughtful face, "Have you liked the food?"

Pipper sweeps her legs together, gently resting her narrow arms on the bony bridges of her knees, "Have you liked the food?."

"What about your family?" Caesar interjects, his eyes raking Pipper's snowy face for any reaction to his question.

Pipper arches an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching down into a grimace, "What about them?"

"Are you close to them?"

Pipper seems to ponder this question for a minute, "As close as you could expect."

Caesar Jr. suddenly waves his hand in the air, nearly jumping up and down for joy as a sudden idea strikes him.

"Do you have any friends?" he asks, eagerly pressing his face closer to Pipper's.

"How are you defining friend?" Pipper questions back, tipping her head to the side as if examining a complex puzzle.

Caesar's pasty face breaks into a grimace. What will he do if she won't answer any of his questions? Cry?

"How are you feeling about this year's tributes?" He asks desperately, waving those spider fingers over his knee.

Piper raises an eyebrow, casually sweeping her long curls over her shoulders, "Do I have to have an opinion about them?"

Caesar blinks, his face going blank. He manages to stutter out, "Well I guess not."

Pipper's face remains impassive, her heavy gaze flashing beneath her thick lashes, "If I did have an opinon, would you like to hear it?"

"Yes!" Caesar Jr. bounces from his plush seat.

"Oh good," Pipper sighs, running her fingers along the layered edges of her dress, "because I don't have one."

Ceasar sighs, running a hand over his tired face, "OK, one last question Pipper. Are you prepared for the arena this year?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Pipper questions, glancing down at her nails.

The buzzer blares.

That was strange.

I learned nothing new about Pipper, learned nothing of what strategy she would use in the arena or of how she operated. Perhaps I did learn one thing. If she's as good at deflecting weapons as she is questions, then maybe she could make it past more than a couple of days in the arena. If not...well then that's that.

Sean Armani steps up next.

He is dressed casually. Blue jeans and a pale T-shirt with a dark blazer thrown over top. His hair is soft and tousled making it look like he just crawled out of bed and threw on some clothes. His sharply angled face has a pleasant, friendly look to it. His eyes are the same blue as his sister's, but they are not sharp and ice cold like hers. They are warm and melting, the same colour as thawing ice in spring.

He's interesting, that one. Everyone expects him to be just as ruthless and cold-hearted as Aleah, but he doesn't seem to be like that. He seems to be friendlier, kinder, more charming then she ever was. He's more likable. Which is dangerous. The likable ones are the ones that you should always look out for.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Caesar starts off, seeming to have recovered his composure after the frazzled interview with Pipper.

Sean grins, relaxing into his chair, "And it's a pleasure to finally have met you."

"I hope your stay in the Capitol has been good?"

"It has been," Sean replies, drifting his sapphire gaze down onto Caesar, "But have you tried making a piece of toast? Do you know how hard it is?"

A few chuckles from the crowd escape. I can hear their high-pitched whine lingering in the air. God, this kid already has the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand.

Caesar blinks, his plastic face breaking into a toothy grin, "No, I've never thought of that, actually."

"There's so many buttons, how do you know which one to press?" Sean runs a hand through his hair thoughtfully, "Or not to press? You make one mistake, push the wrong button and suddenly you have flaming toast trying to kill you."

More laughs, big ones this time. I swear I can even hear some swoons fluttering like butterflies through the air. Sean grins to the crowd, a soft grin that's probably making more than a few female hearts spill onto the floor right now. How does he do that? The crowd positively loves him right now.

Sean continues talking, his voice lilting with humour, "You're so busy worrying over the other tributes, the knives, the arrows that you overlook the deadliest weapon of all: flaming food."

The crowd is hooting with laughter, giggling with strange pitches and clutching their pillow soft bellies. They remind me of the muttated hyenas the bio-engineers in my district once created. They were creatures who laughed at everything, even at something that they had just killed.

"Should we add that to the weapon rack next year?" Caesar grins, a jagged line of white breaking through the soft, landscape of his face.

Sean chuckles, nodding his head, "You better, otherwise the poor tributes coming in next year are going to be very unprepared."

"Because toast can kill!" Caesar Jr. pipes up, nearly falling out of his chair in excitement.

The crowd goes nuts, literally nuts. Laughing and heaving like starving animals waiting for a good joke. Maybe it is funny, maybe they deserve to laugh, but it doesn't make me despise them any less.

Once the laughter has died down, Caesar tries to smooth the craggy surface of his face, maintain a more serious mood. He fails. Miserably. Waving a hand weakly in the air, he tries to catch his breath or possibly think of another question to ask.

"Now Sean," he manages to puff out after a few seconds, "I think you know we've all been talking about you and your sister."

Sean's face loses most of its humor. His eyes still laugh out at the crowd, but his friendly face and pleasant demeanor have sharpend, creased into the crumpled folds of seriousness.

"And do you think that there's a chance the Armani twins can win back to back?"

Sean taps his fingers against his arm, sending them dancing and scuttling over the silky fabric of his blazer. His lip is pulled down into a thoughtful frown.

"I think," he begins haltingly, "my sister has shown she's capable of doing anything, of overcoming all odds. If there's anyone that can bring me home it's her."

Caesar nods, smoothing his chin with the palm of his hand, "You love her." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Sean replies, gently gazing out in into the crowd, "If I could have volunteered for her when she was reaped, I would've. I'd do anything for her."

The crowd absorbs this, gently sighing and holding one another close. To me that's more of an insult than a comfort. They can hold whoever they want, whoever they love whenever they want want to. Tributes, like Sean and me, unfortunately do not have that pleasure. We have to go without.

"And you don't want to get Aleah angry!" Caesar chortles loudly, trying to lighten the somber mood that has folded over the stage.

"No!" Sean laughs, a little humour lighting up his face again, softening the harsh angles of his cheeks and jaw, "You wouldn't like Aleah angry. Especially now that she's trying to find that pink Reaping dress a home."

You can barely hear the buzzer over all the cheers and laughs that he's receiving.

Sean is definitely interesting. He doesn't seem as ruthless or calculating as Aleah, but Sean possesses certain qualities that she didn't. He's stronger, kinder and more likable. If he has the nerve to do so his strength will serve him well in combat and his charming personality will easily garner sponsor gifts. He may not be just like Aleah...but he is just as big of a threat as she was.

Sean sits down and Bianca steps up.

She's done up in a pretty blue gown. It's some sort of sequined thing that hangs to her shins and puffs out around her waist. Beneath the blue is a layer of shimmering yellow that plays and dances across the floor. Her lips are colored a soft pink and wisps of curled hair hang around her face in an elaborate, sculpted hairstyle.

She walks towards Caesar and quietly sits down, carefully crossing her legs and placing her pale hands in her lap.

"Hello Bianca," Caesar begins, crossing starry pant legs and gently hanging his microphone from spider fingers, "How are you today?"

"I'm just fine," Bianca replies back enthusiastically. Her voice chirps around the empty stage, "Really I've been quite enjoying the Capitol. The colors here are so bright and beautiful! I wish we had these kinds of colors back home."

"So you've liked the Capitol?"

Bianca beams, earnestly shaking her head up and down, "Oh yes! The colors, the food, the comforts are all just amazing! I can't believe that I get to experience this."

Caesar nods sagely, wisely, all-powerfully knowing, "Did you like your life back in District 11?"

"Yes," Bianca gushes, a slight quake beginning to tremble through her voice, "but it was hard. My family doesn't have a lot of money you see, so sometimes we had to go without some of the things we wanted or needed."

"That sounds horrible," Caesar Jr breathes, his eyes ballooning out of his head.

Oh, yes little Caesar because it is horrible when you don't get something that you want.

Bianca shrugs, "It was OK, I guess. I mean, my family was happy, right? That's all that mattered. As long as we stuck together and helped each other out we could get through anything."

"You are close with your family?" Caesar asks gently as if soothing a trapped butterfly. The kid's terrified, she's probably going to die, and you think you can help her out Caesar? Yeah right.

"I'm very close with my family," Bianca squeaks out, her hands folding and unfolding the creases in her dress, "I just hope I make them proud. All I want to do is see them again. I want to hold them, and my bestfriend Winnie, tight and never let them go."

Caesar gently reaches forward and strokes her arm, soothingly saying his next words, "You'll make your family proud Bianca. No matter what happens in the arena, your family will always be proud of you."

Bianca looks at him, watery light playing in her chestnut eyes. She's managing to somehow hold it together, but one more good push and those tears will cascade over her face.

Bianca runs her thumbs along the bottom of her eyes, wiping away the tears before they can trickle over her cheeks, "Thank you Caesar. It's just hard sometimes being away from them."

Caesar rubs his hand reassuringly up her arm one more time. Seriously what is his deal about touching people? Does it give him some sick pleasure? If this continues he's shooting right up my creepy meter and sitting just below Lucian.

"You mentioned a friend. Winnie, right?" Caesar asks, folding back into his seat and keeping his hands to himself, "Is she a good friend?"

Bianca nods, seeming to have regained some of her enthusiasm, "Oh yes, the best of best friends. We do everything together. Like my family we stick up for each other and never let someone walk over the other. She's like the sister I never had."

"It sounds like there's a lot of people waiting for you back home," Caesar Jr. states, gently adjusting his crooked tie.

"Yes," Bianca smiles sadly, "There are a lot of people counting on me coming home. Hopefully, I won't disappoint them."

The buzzer blares and Bianca quietly makes her way back towards her seat. That girl seems too innocent and kind to ever be in the Hunger Games. I know for me to win that she must die, but it's hard thinking that way now.

I don't know why Bianca was voted in, what she did in her district to make them do that, but the emotion onstage was real. All she really wants to do is return home, see her bestfriend and not die. She has the same goals as me really and that makes me sad. Only one of us can emerge as the victor. Judging by the tears and uncertain way Bianca said she'd win, I don't think she will. It's harsh, but true.

Glancing forward I see Eric step up onto the stage and...wow is he tall. His thick, winding shadow covers the entire stage, blotting out the floor boards, consuming them in a gigantic, heaving mass. I remember him as tall, but standing like a brick wall on the stage it seems like he's grown. Maybe he has some giant blood in him?

Dressed all in gold, Eric definitely looks like a fierce, raging giant. A warrior cast in amber. Except his shirt. It's the colour of midnight, a stark contrast of night to day. Upon it is a strange symbol I've never seen before. Blazing in the center is a burning sun with two, cruel looking scythes crossed over it. It's odd, I've never seen that symbol before. I wonder what it symbolizes?

Caesar inclines his head towards his huge new guest. His crimson hair shimmering like bloody water in the scorching light, "Welcome Erik Fiske! How are you today?"

Erik glares at him, his dark face straining with muscles, "Fine."

I snap my eyes to Erik. His face is dark, his deep irises flickering and sparking with...something. A barely contained rage maybe? He definitely looks like he wants to leap from his seat in this moment and rip off Caesar's head. What happened to cause him to act this way? Was it the Capitol who upset him or another tribute?

Caesar seems oblivious to the fury burning before him. Maybe he thinks it's just another angle, but I highly doubt he has the brains to think otherwise. Either way he continues on like he senses nothing.

"So Erik," He begins, folding his hands into his lap. Out of the corner of my eye I see Caesar Jr. copy his exact same movement, "I notice you are wearing a rather unique shirt. Is there anything significant about it?"

Erik's face twitches, "It represents an organization back in District 11. The Scarecrows. They keep the district running smoothly. They do all the jobs the Peacekeepes think are beneath them."

Along the edge of the bench I see the girl from Two, Sade I think, cross her arms and twist her face into a searing grimace. What is that about? Does she hold something against Erik? Is there a history between the two? But wait, how could there be a history between them if they are from different districts? Or is it just quite simply that Sade comes from the Peacekeeper district and is angry that Erik pretty much bashed Peacekeepers right in front of her?

"Were you part of the Scarecrows?" Caesar Jr. pipes up from his plush chair.

"Yes," Erik nods.

Caesar Sr. nods as well, as if somehow understanding the life Erik has lived and the struggles he may or may not have gone through, "And did they teach you skills that could be useful in the arena?"

"Yes." Erik glares pointedly at Caesar, not elaborating.

Caesar waits...waits...and waits some more. Finally, exasperated he asks Erik, "Would you mind elaborating?"

Erik stiffly shrugs his shoulder, a jerky movement that seems forced and unnatural, "I learned how to use a slingshot. I'm good at it. I learned snares too. I'm strong and I'm fast."

So he can speak with more than one syllable words. I was beginning to worry he was stupider than I ever hoped to dream. But...no his answers don't ever sound slow or dumb. In fact they sound more forced than anything, as if Erik wants to be anywhere but here, as if he has a great many emotions scattering around inside that enormous body of his.

So he's definitely not stupid, but how does his emotions come into play? Does he have trouble controlling them or is this just a rare case? Is this emotion tonight so great that he can't even fathom controlling it? Again I wonder what has caused him to act in such away. I wish I knew, then I could better understand this perplexing guy.

Caesar Jr. looks at Erik, his eyes shining with youthful innocence, "Do you think your skills are great enough to best the Careers?"

"The Careers?" Erik sneers, his voice sharp and mocking, "The Careers aren't a threat to me. They have no skill, they are weak. I could best them all."

Across the bench, the Careers stiffen, their backs arching up like cats about to pounce. Particularly furious are Jet and Sade. Jet because...he's Jet. What more is there to say? And Sade, well it just can't be district pride, not with that look in her eyes. There's something going on between her and Erik, but I just can't figure out what. It annoys me when I don't know something.

"You seem very confident," Caesar notes, swinging his legs together, twisting them at the ankle, "Do you think you have a chance of winning?"

Erik stares at him, "Yes."

Back to the one syllable words I see. Sigh. What happened to Erik to make him act this way? This isn't his normal behavior I don't think. If it weren't for the fierce emotion flickering through dark eyes I might have considered it his angle, but not now. That emotion is too real to be a deception.

"Your parents must be very proud of you," Caesar Jr. nods, clasping his hands in front of him like an important bio-engineer about to propose the project of his life.

The back of Erik's neck tightens, the muscles of his back coiling together like those springs you sometimes see in toy stores. Did Caesar hit a nerve?

"I don't want to talk about them," Erik mutters, his eyes shuttering down to the floor between his heavy boots.

"But-" Caesar begins.

"Please I don't want to talk about them," Erik rumbles, his voice sharp and defensive. Before Caesar has time to ask another question -

- the buzzer blares.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Galla stand and make her way towards Caesar. Her pale frame is draped in a lacy, black gown that reminds me of the spinning's of a spider. Her hair, shorter than I remember, comes down into a jagged bob just beneath her ears. She appears dark and brooding because of all the heavy black make-up she is wearing. Amongst the brightly colored flock of the Capitol citizens she stands out like a raven in the snow.

Caesar looks at her for the slightest of seconds. I can practically see the gears and wires of his mind whirring and whizzing, discarding questions then picking new ones up.

"Welcome Miss Galla Cinder," Caesar booms, brushing his ghostly hands through the air, "It's an honor to have you here."

Galla looks at him with large, dark eyes heavily enhanced by shadows and midnight make-up, "It's just an honor to be here." Her reply is so quiet it sounds like the whisper of feathers being rubbed together, scratchy breaths of air sweeping through the trees.

Caesar Jr. swings forward, twisting his legs into a squiggly, knotted line, "Have you enjoyed your stay?"

"Yes," Galla nods, quickly, fervently darting her eyes around the stage. She gently rubs her fingers across the dark lace swirls of her dress. Bangs of hair flop into her face and partially obscure her eyes.

"Were you excited to talk to me?" Caesar Jr. asks, a cheeky grin playing across upturned lips.

Flitting her eyes across the stage, desperately tugging at a dark curl of hair, it appears that Galla wants nothing more than to disappear and hide in the shadows. Is this her strategy? Or is she just simply playing up an angle?

"Yeah, I guess." More tugging at her clothes, more picking at the lace. Pale hands crawl together and close up under the dark sleeves of her dress.

What is she doing? Why is she making it so obvious that she wants to disappear? Is this her strategy or the honest desperation of her emotions leaking out? I guess she has always been one to fade into the background, blend with the darkened patches of wall like no one else. But would she use that as her strategy?

What is her game? If her strategy is to blend into the shadows, how does she hope to win? Sure, if no one notices her they won't attack her, but if she completely fades into the background no sponsors will take note of her either. She can't have the best of both worlds.

"Now, Galla," Caesar lilts, his candy eyes sharpening, blazing with new inventiveness, "I need to ask you a question we've all been dying to know."

Galla looks at him suspiciously, her mind probably snagged on the looming word of "dying." Her bangs coil down into her face, "What would that be?"

A finger taps Caesar's long, straight nose, "What was your reaction to being voted in as tribute?"

Galla visibly stiffens, dark eyes shattering into jagged shards of glass. Underneath the fabric of her dress I see her hands clench together in small fists.

"Why do you want to know?" She snaps, hostile and suddenly angry.

Whoah. Wasn't she supposed to be hiding; you know blending into the background? What happened to that strategy? Why did she suddenly abandon it when asked a personal question? If that's not her strategy then what is? What is her game? I am so confused by her.

Apparently Caesar is too. He jumps slightly at her response, exaggeratedly raising one thin-lined eyebrow at his suddenly hostile guest. The crowd whispers softly to themselves, glancing with a new eye at this District 12 tribute.

Tentatively, Caesar runs a finger across his lip, "Is it difficult to talk about how you feel?"

Crossing her arms, Galla pointedly stares down Caesar, "Why do you care? I'm not talking about my feelings with you."

"What about me?" Caesar Jr. squeaks, his tiny face lit up with hopeful light.

"No."

A crack forms on Caesar Jr.'s face, his pale eyes swimming in the pool of his heartbreak. He looks utterly devastated. It's just one "no" kid. Deal with it.

"Oh, well, ugh" Caesar starts, casting a concerned look towards his saddened son, "One more question. Did you say good-bye to your family before coming here?"

Galla twitches, "Why should I answer that? That's none of your business. Leave me alone."

The buzzer blares.

Galla walks off stage, her dress draping behind her like jagged wings. The last tribute rises for their interview. Lucian.

Next to me I can feel the shifting weight of Alaric. He wraps towards me, flicking grey eyes up at my face.

"What do you think of this guy?" He asks, shooting a nervous glance to the dark figure on stage.

I cross my arms, tapping my fingers across my arms. Shivers crawl up and down my spine just thinking about this guy.

"I don't like him. He seems...empty." I sigh and glance at the emerald green nail polish adorning my fingernails. Poisonous green. Poisonous like Lucian.

Alaric nods, his lips parting into a grimace, "Did you ever notice how he never seems to have any real emotion?"

"Yes," I say, casting a furtive look in Lucian's direction, "He could be scary in the arena that one."

Alaric doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He knows just as much as I do that Lucian isn't exactly right.

Up on stage Lucian sits in his chair, a lazy charm plastered onto his chalky face. His clothes are in a word classy. A black tuxedo drapes his smaller frame, hugging the lean curve of his chest and legs. Along the edges it is trimmed in red, blood red. His tie is deep, dark maroon. And...am I imagining this? Even his ebony hair seems to be polished with a vague, maroon colour. Creepily charming can sum up his entire outfit.

Caesar looks at him with crimson-lidded eyes, "Welcome Mr. Lucian Drake. How are you faring?"

Lucian stares back him, his eyes holding an oddly blank stare, "I'm doing fine Caesar. Learning skills, learning survival. Faring quite well indeed."

Icy fingers run themselves up and down my spine. Lucian is so creepy. The way he is saying his words...they sound rehearsed and practiced to the point that there is no emotion or feeling rounding them out. Then there's his eyes, glazed and distant as if he's thinking about one thing and saying another. I wonder what he's thinking. Shiver. Scratch that, I don't really want to know.

"The skills you're learning," Caesar asks, holding out his microphone, licking his dry, paper lips, "will they be of any use to you in the arena?"

Lucian gazes off into the distance, absently running his narrow fingers along his pant leg, "Yes. Yes the skills I'm learning...well they'll be useful to me at least."

Caesar Jr. gazes with avid interest at Lucian. Apparently he isn't creeped out by him. That or he is so used to creepy people it doesn't affect him anymore, "So you think you have a chance of winning?"

"Of course," Lucian replies, a hollow grin gracing his blank face, "Of course I'll win. In a couple weeks from now I'll be back here doing another interview."

But he won't win, I'll be the victor instead. I'd hate to see how the tributes would have suffered under his hands if he had indeed won.

"So, Lucian," Caesar asks, gently leaning forward, "How do you feel about this year's tributes?"

Lucian blinks, considering the question. His blank eyes heavily sweep towards Caesar, his voice drawling unemotionally, "The tributes are strong this year. Most of them are made for the arena. At least I'll have a little competition this year, some years are _so _boring."

"So you enjoy watching the Hunger Games?" Caesar Jr. suddenly blurts out.

Lucian shrugs, his face impassive, "They entertain me."

That cold-hearted bastard! How sick and twisted can you be to actually enjoy the Hunger Games? How could you enjoy watching that?! How - Why am I asking myself these questions? This is Lucian. Anything sick and creepy probably goes with him.

"And," Lucian continues flatly, "everyone loves the Hunger Games, right?" That same hollowly charming smile ignites his cold lips.

The crowd cheers for him, some laughing and agreeing. The snarling wolves teeth are back, hunting their prey, stalking the weak. Wow, Lucian would get along with most Capitolites just fine.

"You seem like a very charming fellow," Caesar notices, flashing a grin to the cheering crowd.

Lucian nods, the red in his hair shimmering and coiling, "Of course Caesar. I can always persuade people to get what I want. Even if it means using any tactic necessary to get the job done."

What kind of tactic is he talking about? Do I really want to know? Maybe the best thing with Lucian is knowing the least amount of information about him as possible. It's less frightening that way.

" A lot of people like you?" Caesar Jr. asks, grinning cheekily.

Lucian stares at little Caesar the blank eyes staring absently at the kid's forehead. A strange, fractured light dances there, lingering and stretching. The charming smile that had once adorned his face now looks like a hungry grimace, "I would say that I make an impression on them."

"People remember me too!" Caesar Jr. squeaks, jumping up and down in his seat.

Caesar smiles down at his son, gently patting his narrow shoulder and looking like the very image of a proud father, "That they do, Jr." Little Ceasar beams up at him with frost dipped teeth.

Caesar turns back to Lucian, a goofy sort of grin on his face, "Now Lucian one more question."

Lucian glances dully at him, his eyes blank marbles. He looks bored and uncaring sitting there, like a king surveying his people. Stony, blank and completely devoid of emotion.

"What's that?" He asks robotically, his words sounding jarred as if he's reading off a blurry cue card.

"Why do you think you were voted in?"

Lucian regards Caesar blankly, his mouth twisting down into a frown, "Probably thought I could win. I have all the skills to do so and so much more. With me in the Hunger Games, they certainly won't be boring. I'll make sure to entertain."

The buzzer blares. Lucian stands up and makes his way back to the seating area.

The crowd begins cheering, whooping, whistling and clapping like maniacs. The seal of Panem glows up above the stage and the first strings of the anthem begin blaring out.

Dull lights illuminate the various faces of the tributes, some proud, some scared, some confident or right out dazed and lost in their own private worlds. I glance furtively around, soaking in the tribute's faces, their expressions and their mannerisms. I feel the steady warmth of Alaric beside me, the gigantic frame of Erik towering over me.

This is the last time we're all going to be together, warm, breathing and alive. The next time we're together it'll be in the arena. Where we're going to be trying to kill each other. Twenty three of us will die, one of us will survive.

I may not be the strongest tribute, or the fastest or even the best-looking, but I am smart and I know my way around plants. I know which ones are edible and which ones are poisonous.

If there's one thing I am, I am certainly the most poisonous tribute in these games. And it only takes one drop of poison to kill someone.


	37. Death's Messenger

**I'm having internet issues, so this is a last ditch effort to get this up tonight. I cannot answer any PM's till tomorrow likely, so any questions etc will have to wait till then. I'm having a very bipolar internet. Hoping to figure it out when hubs gets home.**

**In the meantime enjoy Maeve. Up next is a Armani doubleheader that will blow you away.**

* * *

**Maeve Morghal of District 3**

**Night after the Interviews Part 1 by Falconflight**

* * *

_Death is the tyrant of the imagination._

_- Barry Cornwall_

* * *

I sit on the roof of the Training Center, my legs dangling off the edge of the building as I stare down at the ground so very far below. Almost anyone else would be terrified to sit like this, especially since one push could send them hurtling to their death. I am not afraid, though. Death has been close to me my entire life, and according to him, it is not my time to die. Knowing this, I continue sitting on the roof, swinging my legs casually.

I have come up here as often as possible; I prefer it to my room, though I have spent quite a bit of time in there too watching recordings of the Reapings and the Interviews. I have a list of all of the tributes and as much information on them as I could find. I have also been watching them during the Training Days, copying down strengths and weaknesses, and recorded the Training Scores. I know the tributes here better than anyone else, and this will be my main weapon in the Arena.

The reason I come up here, though, is to clear my mind. I can never hear any messages in the stuffy heat of my room; up here, though, where it is quiet and dark and serene, Diode can almost always talk to me. I come up here to find out when and how tributes will die. I only have a few so far, but Diode says that more messages will come in the Arena.

While I wait for Diode, I divert my attention from the darkness that consumes the ground around the Training Center to the lights of the Capitol. It is difficult to distinguish one building from another thanks to the hazy glow of millions of light bulbs and neon signs. From space, the entire Capitol probably looks like one giant patch of light on a completely black canvas.

"_I have more information for you," _Diode states, breaking my train of thought.

"Excellent." I look at my sides for the notebook before realizing that I can't find it. "I must've left my notebook in my room," I mutter, scowling slightly. "What a stupid mistake… wait just a second while I go get it."

I pull my legs up and stand. I take one more moment to peer over the edge and stare into the darkness below; it almost feels like looking right at Death. The feeling is sort of exhilarating, I must admit. I pull away, though, and walk back to the elevator. I wait as the elevator shoots down to my floor and step of briskly, quickly walking to my room. I open the door and am about to walk right in, but I stop upon seeing two other women in my room. To say that they are familiar would be a vast understatement; everyone in Panem knows these sisters.

"Good evening, Gamemakers," I announce. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Head Gamemaker Phoenix turns, and I see that she has something in her hands. My notebook. She gives me a smile that is infamous for being deceitful. "We heard about your unique talents, and we wanted a chance to talk to you before you go off to the Arena." When she mentions the Arena, her smile grows.

I can't help but feel sort of excited; they want to know about me. About my job as Death's Messenger. This could change people's opinions of me. If I come out of the Arena with their support, no one will ever dare call my predictions bullshit again.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

"How often are you right?" Phoenix asks.

That is a difficult question to answer. It is true that people have evaded death in the past; sometimes it seems more like a coincidence when my predictions are right. That's ridiculous, though. My predictions are always correct; sometimes, they're just mistimed, or have been interfered with.

"My predictions are almost always correct," I reply. "Sometimes people cheat death. They all die eventually, though. Everyone dies eventually."

"You have written down how some of the other tributes are going to die," Phoenix comments, gesturing to the notebook. "Have you memorized this notebook?" I nod; remembering lots of information is one of my specialties. "How will Alexis Spurling die?"

I briefly wonder why they are testing me on this, but I shake away the thought and focus on remembering what I had written down about the District 7 female. "She'll be the first to die in the Bloodbath. She'll panic when she sees the knives in the Cornucopia and step off of her plate early."

Phoenix has handed the notebook to her sister, Belles, who is reading and nodding. "That's what she has written," she confirms.

"What about Londyn Aureole?" Phoenix asks.

"She'll die on day two," I answer. "She will be attacked and killed by a dragon."

Belles frowns. "That's what you have written, but isn't that a bit extreme, even for a mutt?"

I shrug. "You tell me; it's your Arena."

Phoenix smirks. "I like you. What about her District partner?"

"Edrick Quillheart." I pause, straining to remember what Diode had told me about him. "He'll be the first death after the Bloodbath," I answer. "Killed by a rocket."

"What about Sean Armani?" Phoenix inquires.

I frown slightly. "I haven't been told anything about him yet."

"I know," Phoenix replies. "I want you to do a bit of fortune telling for me."

"Okay." I wait patiently to hear Diode's voice, knowing full well that providing an unsatisfying answer is not an option.

"_Sean will die on the tenth day," _Diode states. _"He'll be chained to a rock and slowly torn to pieces by a giant, mutated bird."_

Not even for a second do I question how ludicrous the idea sounds, and I relay the information to the sisters. Belles rolls her eyes and mutters something about how she's not even surprised anymore. Phoenix, on the other hand, seems to be thinking over this information. Eventually, the cocky smirk is back.

"Does anyone else know about your predictions?" Phoenix asks. "Or, more specifically, have you told anyone how they're going to die?"

I shake my head. Diode told me early on to lie low and try not to stir up any trouble with anyone by telling them that they're going to die. I'm not sure what difference it will make, seeing as nothing can delay the inevitable, but Diode speaks for Death, so I have tried to follow his command to the best of my ability. Still, I'm pretty sure some people have occasionally overheard me talking to him. They probably all think I'm crazy now that I've done my interview. I'm not crazy, though.

"I think that's all, right, sister?" Phoenix turns to Belles, who nods and hands me the notepad back. "We will be watching your progress in the Arena very carefully. May the odds be ever in your favor, Miss Maeve Morghal."

"Thank you." I almost feel like smiling; they seem to like me. Being in the good books of the Gamemakers seems like a huge advantage in the Arena.

Belles leaves, but Phoenix lingers behind. "I do have one last favor to ask you, actually. Do you know when and how my son will die?"

For a moment, I do not seen the harsh and cruel Gamemaker that poisoned every tribute's mind last year. I see a mother, scared for her child. "That's too far in the future for me to see," I confess as Diode whispers information in my ear. "Beware of arrows, though."

Phoenix nods. "I hope we will be able to work together again should you win the Hunger Games," she announces. "Your talents would be wasted in the typical Victor line of business." With that, she turns and marches briskly towards the door. The last thing I see of Phoenix Snow is a cascade of orange hair before she closes the door behind her.

"Well, that was interesting," I mutter to Diode.

"_Indeed, though it might be helpful in the Arena,"_ he suggests.

"Exactly what I was thinking," I agree. "Do you want me to go back to the rooftop?"

"_Sure. It's always easier to get messages through when you're up there," _Diode explains.

I grab my notepad and a pen before leaving my room and walking towards the elevator. Perhaps I should go to bed soon; getting some sleep is probably a good idea before going into the Arena. I should savor my last night in a real bed. I will wait, though; this comes first. The elevator doors open, and I walk in. I press a button and go zipping to the top. The doors open again, and I exit briskly. There is still no one up here; it is still as quiet and serene and almost surreal. I am glad that conditions up here haven't changed. I walk to where I was sitting earlier and plop down again, dangling my legs over the edge and into the abyss of darkness.

"So, what information did you want to tell me?" I prompt, uncapping my pen.

"_Sean's death, for starters," _Diode replies. I flip to Sean's part and quickly scribble down how he will die. _"Damian Blackwater's death as well."_

I quickly flip to where I have documented Damian's information. "Yes?"

"_He'll be torn to pieces by mutated ferrets,"_ Diode tells me.

"Doesn't he have a pet ferret?" I ask while writing it down, though it's a stupid question. I have the information right in front of me.

"_Yes. There is something strangely ironic about death, isn't there?" _I hear Diode chuckle darkly. _"That's all for now. Good luck in the Arena."_

"I have Death on my side; I don't need luck," I answer, not doubting my words for even a second.

Diode laughs again. _"You sure as hell don't." _He is silent after that.

I put my notepad aside and once again resume staring at the darkness below me. I can't even make out the pavement from up here; it's like looking into the bottomless pit where Aleah and Jules faced off. It's different in the sense that I know for sure that I won't die; neither of them ever had that certainty.

_Neither of them ever had Death on their side, _I add to myself.

There is something absolutely fascinating about being so close to death and yet so far. I am practically looking Death in the face, and yet I know I won't die. It is exhilarating to think about; I almost want to fall just to prove that I will survive. It would be simple, wouldn't it? I would never be in any real danger. After all, according to Death, I'm going to win these Games; I can't win if I'm dead.

_It's just a little jump, _a voice whispers in my ear. _A chance to have the thrill of the lifetime; a chance to brush the fabric of death. A chance to meet your master._

A part of me really wants to do it; I'm not even going to try to deny it. A part of me really wants to know what it's like to touch the border between life and death. My sensible side eventually gets the best of me, though, and I turn away. I stand up and stretch, yawning loudly as I do so. Sleep would be good; sleep would be nice. I will be grateful for it once I enter the Arena. I collect my notepad and pen and walk back towards the elevator.

For the fourth time this evening, I walk into the large metal chute and press the number for District 3's floor. I go shooting downwards again and once again arrive within a minute. I briskly stride out of the elevator and walk quickly back to my room. Thankfully, there are no Gamemakers waiting to interrogate me this time. I am greeted by silence and a strange sense of familiarity. I am going to miss the beds and the food in the Capitol, but, if all goes according to Death's plan, I will come back to all of this in just a few weeks.

"_Are you ready?"_

I hear a voice that is not familiar. A voice that I have never heard before, except for once a year ago. "Hyre?"

"_That's me," _Hyre replies somberly. _"You remember my name better than my own family did."_

"Are you here to tell me who dies?" I press.

"_I'm here to help you," _he corrects. _"The Arena might do the same thing to you that it did to me, and that is not something that you want to happen."_

"What happened to you?" I inquire curiously. I remember Hyre's story well enough, but it would be nice to hear it from him directly.

"_Guilt drove me insane," _he answers. _"I was never prepared for the Arena; I couldn't deal with just a little bit of blood on my conscience. If that happens to you, you'll go mad trying to bring justice to yourself."_

I nod as I take in his words. "So what do I do?"

"_Obviously, you're going to have to get some blood on your hands, but as long as you don't care, you're fine," _Hyre explains. _"Distance yourself from the people you kill as well as the deaths, and you might make it out of there while still being yourself. If your guilt begins to make you crazy, though, remember who you are and why you're fighting. That's what my mentor told me to do. Unfortunately, it didn't help that much."_

I dedicate all of his words to memory. "So, do you think I can win?"

"_Death thinks you can, so I suppose so." _I can almost picture the District 2 tribute shrugging his shoulders. _"Although for me, death was winning, so I'm not sure what winning actually means for you."_

"Winning means life," I respond immediately.

"_Is there really a difference between the two? Life or death? At the end of the day, we all have to suffer. I mean, just look at Aleah." _Hyre chuckles grimly. _"I'll let you get your sleep now, but take it from someone who knows what you're about to go through: the only victor is the person who dies as themselves and not some abomination that the Capitol has turned them into."_

"I'll remember that," I reply. "Thank you, Hyre.

"_I think you're the first person to thank me." _After that, all the voices go silent.

I set my notepad and pen down on the side table. This will be the last time I use my pen, as I can only carry one of the two into the Arena, and I would be an idiot for choosing the pen over my vast collection of information. I yawn again before flopping down on the bed, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. Tomorrow, I will be given new clothes; it doesn't matter what I'm wearing now. At this point, I feel like nothing matters. The only important thing now is rest. I clear my mind and slowly drift off to sleep.

My sleep is plagued by a vivid nightmare. I am walking through a plain and barren field. Everything is absolutely silent. I can't even here the faint whistle of the wind or the thump of my feet hitting the solid earth beneath me. The sun is bright and harsh; it bears down on me like a stern teacher glaring at a mischievous kid. I am sweltering underneath its heat, and I would do anything for some shade. That's when I see a cliff that rises abruptly out of the ground. It casts a long and inviting shadow, and I suppose a short break couldn't hurt.

I walk over to the shaded area and slump down to the ground, resting my back against the rock of the cliff. I allow myself to relax; with my back against the cliff, nothing could possibly sneak up on me. I sigh, but the noise is swallowed by nothingness. I frown slightly and try to speak, but nothing comes out. Or perhaps something does come out, but any noise is sucked away as soon as it leaves my mouth. I begin to panic slightly, but I force myself to relax and take a sip of my water.

That's when a hand grabs my arm. I scream, but no sound is heard. I feel more hands beginning to grab me; they come out of the shadows and wrap their skeletal fingers around my body. They tug and pull, and I begin to panic. I thrash around, but the hands restrain me. I kick wildly, but more gaunt fingers wrap themselves around my legs and hold me in place. I try to scream again, but still, no sound comes out. I cry over and over again as the hands pull, causing agony to shoot through my body. They are hurting me, and I feel tears beginning to streak down my face. I try one last desperate time to scream, and this time a noise does come out. It is high-pitched and pained; it is a frantic cry for help.

I see a figure coming towards me. He isn't walking; he's gliding across the field, and his feet never touch the ground. I'm not sure how I know it is a he because he is completely concealed in black robes. For some reason, though, I know who he is. He is my master; he is Death.

"You promised!" I cry. "You told me I would win!" One of the hands pulls sharply at my hair, and I let out a sob. "You said I wouldn't die!"

"I lied." As he says this, the hands begin to drag me back into the shadows. I scream and shout, hopelessly trying to break free. They are too strong, though, and they pull me further and further back into the darkness.

"No! NO! NO!"

I wake with a start and sit up immediately, panting heavily and trying to get air back into my lungs. My heart rate slowly returns to normal, and my breathing becomes much less heavy. I sigh as I recompose myself and allow myself to recline in my bed. I glance over at the clock. Two a.m. Technically, it is launch day, though I'll have to wait a couple more hours before entering the Arena.

The memory of the nightmare haunts me, and I know that I have to ask the question that is now nagging my mind. "Diode, am I going to die in the Games?"

There isn't a response.


	38. Obedience

So bear with us through the hard lesson that's about to be taught, and some surprising revelations about last games in part one of a two part Armani chapter.

* * *

**Aleah and Sean Armani of District 10**

**Last Night in the Capitol Part II by cottoncandychoctop**

* * *

_**Goodbyes are not forever.**_

_**Goodbyes are not the end.  
They simply mean I'll miss you  
Until we meet again!  
~Author Unknown**_

* * *

_**Sean Armani**_

* * *

Look, for all the hype it gets, there really isn't all that much that's great about the capitol. I mean sure the city looks hugely expansive and crazily rich, but it's kind of hard to appreciate that when the majority of people look like they could have been drawn by toddlers with colouring in pencils. Maybe it's just because I haven't grown up with all this over the top extravagance that seems to be so prominent here, but I really don't see the draw of all that surgery or colouring or piercing. I mean I've literally seen the lot: a girl with so many peacock feathers glued onto her eyelashes that she looked like she might take flight, a man literally with so many piercings that I couldn't see any skin (which worried me a little as to where _else_ he may have piercings) and even a baby girl who's fingernails had had diamonds attached to them. I mean honestly, a _baby?_ Surely a baby has far more important things to worry about other than the quality of their fingernails, like making sure to wake their parents at three AM, or remembering to barf more than four times a day. But I don't think anyone, not even Aleah, would be willing to deny that the one thing that the capitol has going for it is the food.

That's why, after (luckily) surviving my interview less than half an hour ago, coming to sit down at our elaborately decorated dining table is probably the highlight of my night. I mean sure, being on that stage had actually been a lot less stressful than I had anticipated, but watching all those careers talk about how ready they were to enter the arena kind of put me on edge. But hey, nothing like a banquet to calm you down right?

Since we've just come in from the interview earlier this evening everyone from both mine and Pipper's styling team is eating with us tonight, much to Aleah's displeasure I assume. That first night before the chariot rides when Aleah had found out I literally had the _exact_ same team as she did last year she was pretty furious. I don't exactly know what it is that made her so angry, only that she definitely seemed to take it personally. Carmen, my stylist, is absolutely hilarious: every time she opens her mouth some witty little quip escapes and I can barely control my laughter each time. I'd like to hope that she's like that simply because she actually likes me, but I'm pretty sure she's just lightening the mood. And dear god, does the mood need lightening on a night like this.

"Both of your interviews were absolutely marvellous," Esserenda says far too cheerfully, her posture sitting on the chair so rigid it would have to hurt after a while, "Especially yours, Sean! I don't think I've ever seen such a natural stage presence."

I'll admit, not the greatest compliment I've ever heard, but it's kind of reassuring, "Thanks, Esserenda. In all honesty I was just glad I didn't fall flat on my face on the walk up to the chair."

"That has happened," Carmen chimes in, "Mind you when you put your tribute in twelve inch heels you have to be willing to take a gamble."

"Perhaps you should remember that next time you design me a pair," Aleah says with a playful smirk in Carmen's direction, but she doesn't even take notice of it.

"But honestly, Sean," Heath says, completely ignoring Aleah although rolling his eyes slightly, "With the combination of that interview and your ten in training, you've definitely become one to watch. In some respects that's a good thing, in others not so much."

Aleah frowns at the mention of my training score, and my mind quickly flashes back to the moment that that ten flashed up in big bold numerals underneath my face on the TV screen. It was a moment like that when the word 'surprised' doesn't come close to what I was actually feeling. I hadn't even fathomed the possibility of getting anything remotely close to that in my training session. I mean really all I had done was hit a few targets, both stationary and mobile, with my stockwhip and then showed off a little some of the other tricks Aleah and I had practiced. It wasn't hard, I've been using one ever since I was around nine years old, I'd just never really considered it a weapon before. When Aleah suggested I use it and showed me some of things I could do with it, like disarming adversaries, ensnaring opponents and defending myself against blades, it wasn't hard to make the transition. But despite my relatively good skill level with it I didn't think I was even in the league of the majority of those careers. I mean holy hell did you see what that guy from one could do with a sword? So yeah, surprised doesn't really show you just how unprepared I was when I scored one of the highest scores in the entire competition.

Once the shock had evaporated a little it was replaced with a sort of nervous excitement. Perhaps high-scoring tributes don't always win (just look at Aleah for example) but it definitely helps with sponsors, and could perhaps make me seem considerably more intimidating than I actually am. But Aleah, yeah she wasn't at all happy when she saw the score. While everyone else was congratulating me, shaking my hand and wanting to know how I did it, she had quickly slipped out of the room and refused to talk about it. That was probably as confusing as the whole scoring a ten thing anyway. I couldn't understand what it was about a high score that got her so anxious, but whatever it was must have affected Heath as well because he too became increasingly reserved.

I quickly divert the conversation in another direction, knowing this probably isn't easy on Aleah, "Yeah but Pipper did really well as well," I said with a small smile in the direction of my district partner, "That joke you made about cows regurgitating their curd because they're 'bullimic' cracked me up."

Pipper gives a little shrug, "It was okay I suppose."

Alright, it appears that's all I'm going to get out of her. I don't really know what it is I did but apparently she doesn't like me one little bit. Or at least she doesn't trust me, which tends to be somewhat of trend around here. During the past three days the majority of people seem to be very sceptical whenever I attempted to talk to anyone. A lot of the other outliers pretty much just steered clear of me the majority of the time, and a number of the stronger and considerably bolder careers would approach me with the very obvious intent of intimidating me. Oh and of course there's the ever present tag of, "Aleah Armani's brother," that tends to follow me wherever I go. Look it's not that I'm not proud of Aleah, of course I am, she's absolutely phenomenal at everything she does, but the tag annoys me. Yes, I am Aleah's twin, but that doesn't make me something special, nor does it make me anything to be feared. But apparently that didn't seem to sink in to many people, what can you do I suppose?

"Chicken stew anyone?" Clairmont, Pipper's blueberry coloured manicurist asks as he leans out towards it. Aleah and I exchange a nervous glance, and I imagine that the sight of the chicken stew makes her just a nauseous as it makes me. In fact, I hadn't touched a single morsel of poultry the entire trip, well not after that first catch-up session anyway.

* * *

I hadn't been prepared for it the first time she decided to start what she deemed my 'catch-up' sessions. In my defence, who can really prepare to be woken at such a crazy hour in the morning, once again, by a pillow.

"Okay," I had moaned, "This is getting ridiculous. Once was funny, twice not so much. My nose may never recover."

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," Aleah said, her trademark smirk across her lips, "we've got some training to do."

I had looked around at the huge glass windows in my capitol room and noticed that there was not the tiniest ray of light seeping around the edges of my curtains. I rolled over, my body feeling like lead, and looked at the bright green numbers flashing on the bedside clock.

"At four in the morning, Aleah?" I groaned, "Can't this wait till some sort of reasonable hour?"

"Nope. Now I'm giving you three seconds to get off your ass and come with me before I blast the air-conditioner and turn this place into an iceberg."

"I'll just turn it off," I said, rolling back over and covering my head with the sheets. I don't think I really believed for one second that would be enough to win me this argument, and sure enough I was right.

Aleah snickered, "Like you would be able to do that in a million years. You can't work our TV let alone a capitol air conditioning system. Now get your fat ass up off the bed before I start telling the avoxes not to feed you."

It was an empty threat, I knew that, Aleah wouldn't dare start starving me now, not so close to the games but I knew my sister. When she wants something she won't stop until she gets it. It's probably one of the reasons she's a victor.

I didn't even bother getting changed, and Aleah couldn't have cared less about what I was wearing, so she just strutted off, ignoring my moans about this ridiculous hour being a detriment to my health, expecting me to follow her. Which of course I did.

It was a really good thing that whoever built this tower decided to put in an emergency staircase next to the elevator shaft, otherwise we may have never gotten Aleah up onto our floor. She brushes it off mostly, saying that the exercise is good for her, but in all honesty I know that it's hard on her. Even so, I never say anything, I've been living with Aleah in her new house in Victors Village for nearly a year and I'd learnt not to mention anything about her aversion to closed in spaces. And I didn't want to anyway, Aleah didn't like people knowing she had weaknesses not even me, and I didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable so I never mentioned her claustrophobia. After everything she went through last year to make it back to me it's the least I can do.

I had looked down at the ludicrous number of stairs between here and the ground floor, which was barely visible from this height just in case you wondered, and I imagined the look on my face was pretty close to a grimace. Could you have really blamed me? I mean it was _four AM _and that was a _lot_ of stairs. I'd generally be up for the challenge but not at that hour. Aleah had rolled her eyes at me a little at that.

"By all means if you can't handle a few stairs take the elevator," she said, the patronizing tone somewhat of a challenge, "But honestly I doubt you'd be able to work it."

"Ha ha you're so funny," I had said with a playful glare, "Where are we going?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she said in a singsong voice, and that fake innocence in her tone didn't make me feel any easier.

"I thought mentors were supposed to be helpful and supportive," I said with a grin, taking my first step downwards.

"Well then you lucked out," she said with a snort, "Because being helpful and supportive is as much a part of my personality as empathy and compassion are."

The massive descent down the stairs was just as long and painful as I anticipated; taking what felt like an eternity despite the fact we didn't even go to the bottom. How Aleah climbs _up_ these stairs every single day I don't know, I would probably die of some kind of cardiac arrest. After about one billion stairs we reached the mystery floor and Aleah opened the door out onto flat land. I had held my breath a little as I looked out and saw a huge, white tiled kitchen out in front of me. Aleah started walking out of the stairwell and I followed her dumbly, my eyes following the swarms of people all around us. There were people wearing white absolutely everywhere, some people carrying food, other's making it, other's grabbing the tools for the people making it. And no one so much as blinked watching the District Ten male tribute and his mentor walk through the kitchen to the storerooms; they all just immediately began working around us. It was like some huge, ridiculously precise machine, every little cog knowing it's job. So this was how they managed to make so much food for us, I always guessed it would take a lot of people but I never could have fathomed anything of this magnitude.

"Are we even allowed down here, Aleah?" I asked quickly, looking around at all the people once again.

Aleah's face was hard and cold, any humour gone from her face. She sneered a little as she said, "Let's just say I have…friends…in high places nowadays, Sean."

I furrowed my brow a little in confusion. Aleah and I had never had many secrets before, we'd never had anything we needed to keep secret, but obviously this was news to me, and the way she said it suggested that there was more to this than she was letting on.

"Friends with access to the kitchens?" I asked, hearing the incredulity in my voice.

"Friends with permission to grant access to the kitchens," she corrected, as she opened the doors to the storeroom, making sure to find a crate to lever the door open with.

"So why are we here, Aleah?" I asked gently, not wanting to put her on edge when I already knew she'd be uncomfortable in such a small, confined space, "What does this have to do with training?"

"I wasn't talking about physical training, blockhead," she says, "I was talking about mental training."

She had walked over to a wooden box sitting on one of the large, blindingly white marble bench tops and removed the wooden cover of the box. To reveal a live chicken, trapped in a cage. Aleah then stepped away from the bench, a huge, glistening silver steak knife in her hand.

"What is that for, Aleah?" I had asked, taking a hesitant step back, "Surely you don't want me to…"

"I want you to kill the chicken, Sean," she had said evenly, holding the knife out towards me. I stepped back like the knife could jump out and bite me or something.

"What? No, Aleah! That's just- you can't expect me to- No!" This was stupid, and pointless and inhumane and wrong. I knew she was just trying to help but this was taking things way too far.

Aleah rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh, putting the knife in her belt, before asking me, "Why did I win Sean?"

I was stunned silent for a few seconds, still not really believing that twenty minutes ago I had been fast asleep and now I was here, "What?"

"Why did I win," she pressed on, "God knows I wasn't the strongest, or the fastest. I'd even go so far as to admit that I wasn't the smartest; I mean Nella and Jules were both somewhat intelligent. So why did I win?"

Why did Aleah win? I knew the answer without even having to think about it, because she was the strongest emotionally. Because she didn't let herself get attached, and because she didn't let anything stop her from surviving. Because she was a survivor. But it was more than that, and I knew the answer she wanted.

"Because you played the game," I said in a shallow whisper, my eyes locked on the fretful chicken.

She nodded, "Because I played the game, and I played it on my own terms. I didn't take any chances, I planned everything I did and I didn't let anything get in my way. I had to do whatever I took for me to win this, and that doesn't bother me," she looked strong, and fierce, like a true victor, but I could still see through that last little lie. I knew it more than bothered her, I knew how much she fought with her own emotions every day but she could still survive it. That

She softened her face a little, "But you're not like me Sean. You feel _everything_, you feel other people as strongly as you feel yourself. You're a better person then me by a million miles, but that won't help you in this game."

I knew that, I knew what this game was about. I knew that I was going to have to do unbearable things if I wanted to survive, do things that go against everything I believed in. But it was just easier to not think about what I was going to have to do. Aleah was forcing me to confront things I wished I could keep hidden, even if they were things I needed to face.

She held the knife out even further, closer to my hand, and hardened her face, "You need to learn to not care, Sean, because caring is what killed the majority of those tributes last year. You watched the games, how many died because they became too attached? Onyx, Auracaria, Hyre, Nella, the list goes on and on, all died because their actions killed them, their guilt ate them," she had kept herself controlled as she called upon her memories to help me, but I could see the small spurs of pain in her eyes at the mention of each of the names of the people who had died so she could live, "If you want to win this, and you _have _to win this, you have to learn to detach yourself from any guilt. If you can't kill this chicken, how on earth are you going to kill a person?"

I winced as I look over at the chicken sitting in that box. I couldn't, could I? I mean it was just…just so intrinsically wrong.

"That chicken doesn't have anything to do with me," I argued back as I pushed the knife away and put it back into her belt, trying to take a rational approach rather than an emotional one, "In the arena people will be trying to kill me and I'll be able to justify killing them. This chicken shouldn't have to die. It's pointless."

Aleah laughed, her laugh a little too menacing for my liking, "That chicken is today's lunch, whether you kill it or not. So really if you kill it quickly and painfully, you're sparing it a painful death later." She drew the knife back out of her belt and held it out to me, the determination in her eyes unwavering.

I took a deep breath as I hesitantly took the knife from her hands, the cold steel feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds in my hands. I slowly but surely walked over to in front of the cage, trying to think about what Aleah had said. She's right, people like me don't win these games, people like her do. People who are strong, and determined, unwavering in their desires. If I want to win this thing I have to really embrace the fact that I am Aleah Armani's twin brother, I have to become more like her.

I had tried not to look into the birds eyes as I walked closer to it, its high-pitched squeals sounding torturous. My knife was held suspended in the air for a few timeless moments as I faltered, the absolute atrocity at what it meant to do this steadying my hand. I took a deep breath and tried to push back all the laws I had ever conditioned into myself, forfeiting the human instincts crying out for me not to do this. I hardened my heart as I brought the knife across the squealing bird's throat, and not letting myself feel anything when its blood poured onto my hands. I took another deep breath, stepped away from the bird, and handed the knife back to Aleah. She took it solemnly and placed it down on the bench top before I quickly wrapped my arms around her tiny frame and pressed her against me.

"I don't think I can-" I started but she didn't let me finish.

"You're going to win this Sean," she said strongly, "You _have _to. It's not going to be easy, and there will be times where you don't want to keep going. But you promise me right here and now that you will. You promise me you'll come back."

"I can't-"

"_Promise me._"

I sighed and took a step back from her, looking into her piercing ice blue eyes. How could it be that we, look so terribly alike yet could be so terribly different? She really was a victor now, not the little girl who left. Mind you she was never a little girl, she had always been the strongest person I knew, I guess I just wanted her to always be my little sister.

I took another deep breath and smile warmly at her, "I promise Aleah. I promise I'll come back."

"Good," she said with a smug smile, before lightly punching me in the arm, "If not I'd be stuck alone with Talia to deal with for the rest of my life. I don't quite know if that would be worth living through."

I had laughed much more than the joke probably required, but after what I had just done it was better to focus on something lighthearted rather than let myself think about what was coming, "Well then I have to stick around don't I, or you'd murder Talia in her sleep."

"I wouldn't joke about it Sean," she had said with a mischievous smile, "The thought has tempted me once too often."

She explained the theory of the 'catch-up' sessions to me as we walked up the stairs. Basically I think it's been pretty much established by now that some of my fellow tributes are...for lack of a better word...killing machines. Actually I think the way that Aleah described them was pretty much perfect. She had said, 'they're kind of like me, except meaner, and more talented, and on steroids.' Yep that pretty much sums it up. If someone could genetically engineer future murderers some of these tributes would be what they come up with. I realise that it's probably unfair of me to judge them after knowing them for all of five days but really, with some of them, five days is really five days too many. Particularly some of the careers, I am thoroughly terrified by a number of them. That guy from two, I don't even want to _think_ about what goes on in his head.

Almost the minute after watching the reaping replays, from which Aleah's...um...reaction to my reaping was quite thankfully omitted, Aleah decided she needed to start giving me extra preparation.

"They've been doing this since they were big enough to wield knives in their fat little fingers Sean," she had said while we were climbing up the million stairs back up to our floor, and it was probably one of the first times in my life I had wished I had been born in district one. Their floor is on the first floor, not the tenth. Do you know how many stairs there are between the first and tenth floors? I can't even count that high that's how many there are.

"Yeah, well when you petition to be voted in by your district you can bet you're gonna know what you're doing," I had managed to huff out between each panting breath.

"I've talked to their mentors, Sean, and believe me they did things considerably less civil than _petition_ to be entered," she had said, making this climb look crazily easy, "But either way, physically you're way behind them. So I'm going to catch you up."

"You expect to fit years worth of training into less than a week?" I had asked disbelievingly, the concept not exactly sounding pleasant to me.

"No. But I do plan to teach you whatever I can in as much time as we have available to us."

That morning, when we eventually got back to our floor, they offered everyone on our floor braised chicken for breakfast and neither Aleah nor I so much as touched it, nor have we even tried it since.

* * *

Looking at the chicken stew sitting on Pipper's right the thought of eating it still makes me want to hurl. That hadn't been the only 'catch-up' session, but it had been the worst by far. Actually, Aleah had been waking me at ridiculous hours of the morning ever since that first night for different kinds of training. Last night's knife training wasn't exactly one of my favourites either, I have the bruises to vouch for me here, but despite how many scrapes and cuts I get I know that Aleah knows what she's doing. But the thing is she's just _so_ damn good, I wouldn't be able to land a blow on her if I had been training for years. Plus all the morning wake-up calls aren't exactly doing me a world of good, but Aleah claims she's training my body to be able to deal with as little sleep as possible since I'm not going to be able to get much when I'm in the arena. I hate it when she's right.

Once dinner is finished Heath takes Pipper away from the table somewhere, probably wanting to have some kind of last-minute mentoring session, but Aleah and I head over to the loungeroom, where we were going to re-watch the interviews. However we never get the chance, not when we see them standing there waiting for us.

"Hello, Miss Armani," the older looking woman with the strangely familiar flame red hair says as she smiles coldly at my sister, "And Mr Armani as well. Just the two people we were looking for."

Aleah tenses up immediately as she glares viciously at the woman, her eyes slits filled with pure rage, "Phoenix. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The other girl, the younger looking one who was eerily similar looking to Phoenix stepped forward a little as she piped up, "We were just making our regular last minute visits to tributes and offering our congratulations. We are _so _looking forward to seeing you participate in the Games, Mr Armani."

In all honesty, I found the formality kind of condescending and I didn't really know how to respond to it but luckily for me Aleah cut in before I had to.

"I don't recall you making a last minute visit to me last year," Aleah says disdainfully, her gaze not faltering for a second. Between that comment and the obvious hatred that Aleah harbour for this woman I can pick up just who she is, the Gamemaker who made Aleah that visit earlier this year. She'd never told me what that had been about but I could pick up back then as easily as I could now that Phoenix and Aleah are definitely not the best of friends.

"Well this is a special year," the younger, unnamed one replies curtly, "And you are such a very _special_ case. Two twins in two years, what are the chances?"

If possible, Aleah seems to get even angrier at that and threateningly takes a step forwards, "Yes, what are the chances I wonder."

Sensing that this situation is getting worse and worse by the second I decide now would be the time to try and even out my sister.

"Well thank you for coming to offer your support," I say with a warm smile, hoping it looks genuine, "It's very considerate of you."

"You are very welcome Sean," she replies, and if she was trying to make her smile look comforting she failed dismally, "You always did seem so very lovely. And so very different from your sister."

"It's so nice to know you're so attentive," I say, and I hear Aleah snicker behind me, "At least we can know our lives are in good and thorough hands."

"While we're here," Phoenix says authoritatively, "Do you mind if we steal your mentor away from you for a few moments, Sean. There is one other matter we need to address with her."

I give Aleah a cautious glance, not liking the idea of Aleah and these two women all in one room, but she gives me a small nod before turning her glare back to the two Gamemakers.

"Follow me."

And with that Aleah walks out into the corridor, the two Gamemakers following in her stead, leaving me completely confused and wondering what on earth just happened.

* * *

**Aleah Armani**

* * *

**"_Surrender is a powerful force."_**

**_―__P.C. Cast, __Burned_**

* * *

You know how they say hate is a strong word? Well I disagree, I think hate is a very weak word when it comes to how I feel about this particular woman. People need to start inventing some better words because right now loathing, detestation, hatred, abhorrence, revulsion not one of them comes close to explaining just how much I hate Phoenix Snow.

I turn back around once I've shut the door to my room behind me and turn to face the ginger bitch and her little clone. Seriously, clone is the right word; the resemblance is so uncanny it's gone way past eerie and just straight to freaky. And this is where you point out that it's potentially a little bit hypocritical for _me_ to comment on weird resemblances between siblings but twin DNA similarities aside how many families pass down the genes for bright, flame red hair and teal eyes? Now I don't know about you but I can think of about...zero people born with features like that.

"Definitely stupid," I mutter darkly as my eyes meet those freakily fake looking turquoise irises that I have come to loathe so deeply, "No one is quite _this_ brave. At least this time you weren't stupid enough to bring your devil spawn along with you."

"You don't scare me, Miss Armani," Phoenix says coolly as she helps herself to a seat on my bed, "I think that, despite what _you_ may believe, you are really quite harmless."

"Tell that to my living room furniture," comes my quick retort, my eyes not leaving Phoenix's for a second. She may not be afraid of me but she's seriously deranged if she thinks I'm scared of her either.

"Yes, we did hear about the horrible vandalism your home incurred on reaping day," the clone says. Apparently terribly annoying and maddeningly irritating voices are genetic because this one's voice sounds almost equally as grating as her sister's, "Rest assured we have attended to the problem and have made sure that your home will be properly restored by the time you return to it."

I turn around to face baby bitch, a disdainful smile on my lips, "I'm sorry I don't think we've had the _pleasure_ of being acquainted with one another," I say, mimicking her terribly shrill voice and 'amiable' tone, "But let me guess. If she's the Empress of all that is Evil that must make you...what...Princess of Malevolence and Torture?"

She gives me a shrewd sneer, before raising her head a little, "You may not know me, Miss Armani, but I know an awful lot about you." She quickly eyes the door behind me that I had left slightly ajar, as I always do, and her grin widens ever so slightly. What is it about some people that just make it so hard to resist slapping them?

"This is my sister, Miss Armani," Phoenix cuts in, giving her sibling a small proud smile. Holy shit, that shrew can smile at something _other_ than drowning kittens. I know, my world was just blown to. "Assistant Gamemaker Belles Crowne."

"So in other words," I say turning back to face the very pretentiously, but probably aptly, named Belles Crowne, "You're her bitch."

Belles smile loses a little of it sparkle and her eyes become slightly thinner as her sneer transitions ever so slightly into a glare, "I hardly think you're one to pass judgement in that sort of area, Miss Armani."

"I disagree, Miss Crowne," my tone echoes hers perfectly, "I think my considerable expertise in this area make me quite qualified to distinguish people based on that criteria."

Belles is about to interject another attempted insult when her sister quickly cuts in, probably foreseeing that I could literally do this all day if necessary.

"Perhaps we should now discuss our reason for visiting you," Phoenix says authoritatively, whether to shut me up or her sister up I don't know.

"Yes, perhaps now it's time to address the ridiculously large elephant in the room," I say, attempting to keep as composed as the two of them, however honestly I think I failed. What can I say, composure is not my forte, "which would of course be the fact that you've sent my brother into an arena to fight to his death. Where, oh where to begin...?"

"I warned you when I last came to visit you that we would push you until breaking point if you continued to blatantly disregard our orders," Phoenix says, her face unrelenting but over her shoulder I can see her sister smiling a small, undeniably evil smile on her thin lips.

"Actions have consequences, Miss Armani," mini-bitch chimes in, her tone horribly sweet but the vehemence in her eyes betrays her, "This is yours."

"Really?" I yell back, the fury in me building up with each syllable uttered from each of their overly lipsticked mouths, "So then punish _me!_ If _I_ was the one who disobeyed you, if _I _was the one who needs to be punished then punish _me!_ Not Sean. He did nothing to you, nothing!"

"True," Belles' smile widens, "Your brother is guilty of nothing other than have the considerable misfortune of being related to you."

"Believe me you do _not_ want to begin comparing unfortunate relatives," I murmur quickly with a sidewards glance at Belles' pure-bred devil of a sister but Phoenix ignores me and carries on anyway.

"This is not about punishing Sean," Phoenix crosses one leg over the other in a very business-woman like way which is so irritating that it's all I can do not to dive across and throttle her. It's just the kind of manoeuvre that suggests that planning to kill my twin brother is just another day's work for her, "This is about showing you that you can't beat us, Aleah-"

"Nor should you try," Belles cuts in, the triumph in her voice irrefutable.

"But we are willing to work with you if you stop trying to," Phoenix continues, "If you stop fighting the inevitable and begin acting in a way appropriate to your current status as a victor."

I can't help but laugh at that, so heavily in fact that I quite literally double over.

"You seriously think that I believe for one second you're going to play fair if I just shut my mouth and bat my eyelashes," I say in between laughs, "Is that what you were trying to tell me when you gave Sean a ten in training?"

Neither one of them says anything at that, but they exchange a quick look that I can't quite decode.

"You gave him that score so that he would immediately be labelled a threat, so that just in case people needed another reason to go and kill Aleah Armani's twin brother you could give them one," I say strongly, my laughter dying away as quickly as it came, "The least you could do for the _completely_ innocent boy you've doomed to death is let him fight for his life on even playing field but I'd be willing to bet that the two of you have already signed his death certificate."

It's my greatest fear, throughout the last six days that's been the one thought that's been pressing down on my brain the most. That maybe despite everything I've done, despite all the work we've put in, despite how hard I've tried to prepare him and train him so that he has what he needs to win this thing that they won't let him win. The question is really, do they hate me that much? It would be so easy, so freaking easy, for them to kill him. I can think of a million different incidents: mutts, arena twists, even just a bullet to the head if they get lazy. They have so much power over the arena, and everyone in it, and I'm sure if Phoenix wanted to she would kill Sean simply because she could. If she wanted to, even if it meant spoiling her sadistic little game, she would kill him without even letting him fight for it.

"We scored your brother with a ten as punishment for your actions at the reaping," Phoenix says calmly, disregarding any statements I made about their bias. Wimp.

"What?" I ask, mentally remembering my minor breakdown at the reaping, "I thought that was fairly controlled. Really, you got lucky; I was a few seconds away from pulling a Moss and just exploding."

"What you did was a deliberate sign of rebellion," Belles says, taking a step in towards me, "And we may have been able to cut it from footage but there were still several thousand citizens who saw it happen live. Plus in the replayed footage it's painfully obvious that something happened: one moment you're sitting there, a huge, distressed pink mess, the next your gone. Anyone with half a brain would have noticed it."

I manage to restrain from asking how she noticed it then, but considering I'm being accused of rebellion here I can see the sense in shutting up for once.

"Look that was about zero percent rebellion and one hundred percent me being pissed off," I say in complete honesty. Literally the last thing on my mind when I decided to walk over and shred that piece of paper into a million tiny fragments was, 'oh, this will be a nice little touch of rebellion. Go me!' Really the only thing on my mind was that I was so freaking angry I was about to burst. I think if you asked anyone whose sibling has been reaped for the hunger games what they felt they'll give you a similar answer. The only difference was that I was already sitting on the stage so no one could get in my way and stop me. That and the majority of the population of district ten are terrified of me.

"Nevertheless, whether it was intentional or not, it spoke volumes," Belles counters, obviously no amount of rational reasoning on my part is going to sway her. She's made up her mind and I'm not going to be able to make it budge. Talk about uncompliant. I continue to glare at her as she glares back at me, neither one of us backing down for a second. That's kind of what happens when you put three people all as strong willed as us in a room; it's never going to be pretty.

"You cannot save your brother from the arena now, Aleah," Phoenix says, breaking the silence as she stands up so that she can look dead straight into my eyes, "But you can do your duty, as his mentor and as his sister, and get him some help in the arena."

For all her supposed power, she's about as good at being subtle as I am at being composed. You think that considering the fact that she's the one forcing me into the sex trade she'd at least have the balls to actually say the word. I know exactly what she's implying by saying 'get him some help.' She means get him some sponsors, Sean being Sean I'm sure that there are already millions of people lining up to sponsor him as it is, but what's the quickest and easiest way to get money out of seedy, old, rich bastards. You guessed it: sex.

The idea makes my entire being feel repulsed, in more ways than one, and I just want to run and scream and attack something, preferably Phoenix and/or Belles. But if I don't...If I don't do what they say, then _I'll_ be the one signing Sean's death certificate. He's already here because of me, this is already all my fault. Each move I make against Phoenix and her cronies is really a move against Sean, and I can't keep hurting him. I promised him I'd do whatever it took to get him home, no matter what it was I had to do, and if this is what I need to do...I have to do it. Even if it means backing down to her, which is something almost as disgusting as the idea of selling myself for sex, I have to do what I can to help Sean.

I take a deep breath and avert my eyes away from the two of them, "What do you want me to do?"

Phoenix pulls a small white card out her breast pocket and walks towards me with it outstretched.

"This card has written on it the location of your first client's residence," Phoenix says matter-of-factly, although it's hard to miss the small touch of triumph in her voice, "You are to report there tonight. As soon as possible."

I take the small card and kind of can't help but be disappointed: no scented paper, no cursive handwriting and no frills, I feel cheated. But nevertheless I can feel my hands shaking as I fold open the card and read the address written inside.

**Tribute Training Center Tower**

**Floor 10**

**Room D**

I give Phoenix a confused look, "Ermm...I think you might want to fire your secretary because there seems to be a serious typo going on here. This card has the address for this room."

Belles gives me an incredibly evil looking smile, and I become immediately worried. Surely they don't want me to...with them?...surely not.

"Actually, Miss Armani," Belles says, her tone the stuff of nightmares, "It's for the room two doors down."

Crap, she's right. My room is room B, I completely blanked on that. But let me think about it, Carmen is in Room A, Esserenda's in Room C. Room D is...oh fuck no.

"No! No _way_!" I scream, throwing the card back in Phoenix's face, "Heath! That's...that's...No. On every, single, possible, level, no!"

"Weren't we clear enough, Aleah," Phoenix says threateningly, "You're not the one making the rules here, you're the one obeying them."

"You don't understand," I attempt to argue, "We _hate _each other. I mean my mentor-tribute relationship with Heath was bad and it only worsened when it became a mentor-victor relationship."

"Well obviously you'll have to fix that," Phoenix says with the ghost of a smile on her lips that has me a _little_ bit concerned. Like I said before Phoenix is the kind of person to only smile when kittens are drowning, ergo only something equally as bad is likely to get that kind of response out of her, "You know, for Sean's sake."

"And besides, we cannot have you out in the public with absolutely no experience," Belles says, and it's all I can do not to lurch right at her and rip that smile off her face, "Think of this as practice."

"But it just...just so _wrong!_ I mean I'm seventeen and he...I don't even know how old he is. At least 30, probably older. And how on earth are we supposed to work together after...oh god."

"Let me be perfectly clear Miss Armani," Phoenix booms, "Do you not understand how easy it will be for us to viciously and brutally murder your brother tomorrow if you continue to resist us. If you want more than a few chunks of flesh returning home in that casket I suggest you start listening to us now."

I falter, and immediately hang my head and stop protesting. What can I do, every move I make against Phoenix and her bitchy little sister is just another move against Sean? But Heath, oh god how am I even going to be able to do this? I mean it's not like he's going to jump at the chance to sleep with me and my seduction technique is fairly under par. Plus the very thought makes my skin crawl and I almost want to break down and cry right here and now. If these two demons weren't here I probably would. They need to think they have me wrapped around their fingers. Damn it. My fists will once again have to go hungry.

"Anyway, goodnight, Miss Armani," Phoenix says, that faint smile on her lips not quite erased yet, "I suppose we should wish you good luck for your first day of mentoring tomorrow."

I don't reply because I know that I'll say something that will be in no way helpful but I am quite sure that no matter how much good luck she offers me luck will in no way be any kind of factor here. Plus, I don't think she's being one hundred percent genuine in offering me any good luck, shocking I know.

"And we'll be in touch," Belles says, her sweet smile still in no ways convincing in hiding just how pure evil she is inside. I don't think I have a word strong enough to describe just how much I loathe her either, but hate is probably a little closer when describing my feelings towards her than it is to her sister. I really wish I didn't have to let her have the last word but I have to remember that I'm a compliant little victor now, I don't make retorts anymore. Damn it this isn't going to last long. But despite all the mental desperation to the contrary, I manage to hold my tongue as the malicious sisters, finally, walk out my door.

I can't help but start shaking uncontrollably once their gone, feeling the walls of my life close in on me much more dramatically that anything I felt in the arena. This is what I'm really afraid of, this cage. Having them press me against the bars with nowhere to go and nowhere to run. But I fought through it when I literally had nowhere to run, and this time will be no different.

They can let themselves believe that I'm broken beyond repair; I'll play my part so well that they really think they've won. They haven't quite realised their mistake yet, but I have. The fact of the matter is that Gamemakers have been able to subdue victors for years by using the people they care about against them. That's why they've done this to Sean, to break me. But what they haven't taken into account is that Sean is the _only_ person on this pathetic excuse for a world that I care about. What they've done, without even knowing it, is they've gone all in and thrown in all their chips in on one hand. If Sean-If Sean dies they'll have no one else to use against me. They'll have no more leverage, nothing to keep me the pathetic, compliant, broken little victor they want.

I've always said that rage is easier for me to channel then despair; the current condition of my house is probably a good indicator of that. If they kill Sean they've done the exact opposite of what they want to do. If they kill Sean then that little 'outburst' at the reaping is going to look like a casual stroll in the park compared to what will come next.

If they kill Sean, they're going to find out _just _how different the two Armani twins are.

But even after reminding myself of how high my breaking point is, I can't stop myself from running into the bathroom and hurling up into the toilet thinking of what is about to come.


	39. The Price of Love

Part two of the Armani chapters. Be ready for some surprises! Two more days till launch. Enjoy my little fiends. XD

* * *

**Sean Armani**

* * *

I can't help but fidget as I think about what could possibly be going on in that room with Aleah and those two red-headed Gamemakers, or what could possibly be taking so long. I want to go in there and demand that they tell me everything, she is my sister after all, but I have a feeling that will only make things worse. Even so, it's hard not to be scared considering the potential level of catastrophe that could erupt when you put those three women together. Even not knowing the other two well enough I could see that shit could very quickly hit the ceiling.

"What do you think they're doing in there?" Pipper asks as she comes down to sit on the tiger striped sofa next to me, her arms nervously pulled around her waist.

"I have no idea," I admit honestly, kind of glad she doesn't think I'm some kind of pariah, "But whatever it is they're telling Aleah I guess they'll tell Heath as well. The two of them are in this thing together after all. And he'll tell them what they said to tell you."

"They're not here to talk to _me_ Sean," she says obviously, "I think whatever they're discussing, it's got something to do with you. Probably making an immunity deal."

"You know that's illegal," I say reassuringly, "And besides I don't think that's what they're doing anyway. They didn't look particularly agreeable when we talked before."

Pipper looks like she's about to disagree, but she quickly gets up and pulls me with her when she looks over my shoulder. Hidden behind a corner I watch as Phoenix and the younger Gamemaker strut across out living room and over to the elevator door. To see them leaving is, understandably, relieving but I can't help but be a little worried by the air of superiority that Phoenix seems to have about her now that she's leaving, and the self-satisfied grin on the other one's face isn't reassuring either. As the elevator doors close and the two women are obscured from view I hear the door to Aleah's room slam, presumably meaning she's now left it. I'm about to walk over and ask her what that was all about when a sound stops me, and I falter a few steps away from the corner.

"Aleah," I hear Pipper call from somewhere before Aleah has a chance to escape her room, "Can I talk to you?"

"Not now, Pipsqueak," I hear Aleah respond, the annoyance in her voice fairly obvious, perhaps even to someone who hadn't known her as long as I have, "I'm _really_ not in the mood to listen to you right now."

I know for a fact that Pipper really doesn't like the nickname, I've heard her vent about it to Heath, but whether or not she's annoyed aside she ignores Aleah's refusal, "Ceasar was right you know."

"Ceasar Flickerman? Right about something? That doesn't sound likely," I nearly laugh at that, and blow my cover in the process, but thankfully I manage to keep my mouth shut, "Get to the point, Pipsqueak."

"When he was talking to Sean in his interview tonight," Pipper begins, sounding a little less confident, "he told Sean he probably had a huge advantage having you as his mentor. And he was right; having you is a _huge_ advantage. I mean you're the most recent victor; your knowledge is the most valid and the most beneficial to us as tributes. You even had the same Gamemakers, I mean you've experienced how they work, how they function. You'll be able to predict what they'll do, what their moves will be."

"I'm confused, what is it you actually want?" Aleah just sounds irritated now but at the same time kind of disjointed, like there's something else on her mind.

"I realise that Sean is your twin, and that obviously you don't care about me in the slightest," Pipper says, sounding a little more desperate than she had before, "But technically, you're my mentor too. And I'd really like something, some kind of advice, anything that you could tell me to help me survive."

"You're right," Aleah says, sounding purposefully calm, "I did have the same Gamemakers and I have experienced what it was like with them at the control pad. But here's the difference Pipsqueak, this year it's not just about the game. This year it's about punishment. So if my year, which was just a completely regular year, was as freaking horrible as it was, I can't even _fathom_ what they're going to put you through."

I can't see Pipper's face but I imagine it looks a little like mine does right now, pretty much petrified as Aleah's revelation begins to set in with me.

"So you want my advice, here it is," Aleah says coolly, the volume of her voice dropping a little, "Imagine the most horrendous situation you can possibly dream up. Then multiply the horror of that by a factor ten. Now you're almost on their level of malevolence. Prepare yourself for hell, and then maybe you'll have some idea of what you'll be going up against."

In my absolutely frozen solid state I didn't think to move, and hence broke the cardinal rule of eavesdropping: I got caught as Aleah turned the corner and literally walked right into me. Her eyes widened a little as she realised what I had just heard. I quickly turned away and retreated, trying to make it into my room and shut the door without her following me, and failing terribly.

Aleah gives me a slightly awkward look before sighing a little, "I guess you heard all that, huh?"

"That would be right," I admit, attempting to smile a little, "Did you mean it, or were you just trying to scare Pipper?"

She frowned a little, "I meant it, but I didn't mean for you to hear me say it. I don't want to freak you out."

"Oh I think I was sufficiently freaked out a long time ago," I say, and she grins at me.

Possibly for the first time in either of our lives, we are treated to a completely awkward silence. We've never really been in this position, we're there's been something creating a barrier between us. Now neither one of us is really talking about what is on both of our minds, even though we may never get the chance again.

"I think we need to start talking about it Aleah," I say lightly, walking over and sitting on the edge of my bed, "I think now's the time."

She smiles a little, but it's far to fake to be convincing, "What do you mean? We've been talking about the Games all week. All day, all night. I think if we talked about it anymore you might implode."

I smile sympathetically at her, "Yeah we've talked about tactics, about planning. We've devised the plan and I'm going to stick to it, don't worry. But we haven't talked about what happens if I make it back. Or...or what happens if I don't."

She looks away from me quickly, "Don't say that, Sean. You're coming back."

"Perhaps," I say calmly, "I'm going to do everything I can to try and come back. But there's going to be twenty-three other kids in there all trying just as hard as me to make it home. The odds aren't exactly with me."

"Screw the odds," she says fiercely, her eyes burning with that same intensity I've seen in her all week, "You have your training, our planning and you have me. You don't need odds."

"Plus there are others in alliances, with numbers and allegiances on their sides-"

"We've discussed this, you don't need allies," Aleah says with a small roll of her eyes, "Not like the offers have been pouring in anyway."

"Hey that's not fair," I say with a playful grin, "Just 'cause no one's been asking you doesn't mean that I haven't been asked by people."

That gets her attention, and she immediately whips her head around to look back at me, "Wait. People have been making you alliance offers?"

"Why the tone of surprise, sis," I joke, "Just because you scare the living daylights out of people doesn't mean I do."

"I'm being serious here, Sean," she queries, "Have you really had people ask you?"

I think back to my time over the training, and a few instances spur to mind, "Well yeah, a couple. But only one that was really serious about it."

"Who was that?" she asks intently, her eyes piercing and unwavering.

"Umm...that guy from Four," I quickly try and remember everything I can about him, "You know the shady one, with the strong accent. Something with a C..."

"Con Roussencourte?" she asks, looking puzzled, "the career?"

"Yes," I quickly hit myself on the forehead for not being able to remember his name, "That's the one."

"But you're an outlier," she says frowning, almost like she's thinking out loud, "That kid from one specifically said no outliers."

"Well if you ask me he wasn't doing it for the group," I say, remembering back to the conversation I'd had with that sleazy kid in the bathroom, "It seemed more like he was trying to protect his own ass."

"Interesting," she murmurs lightly, looking far more distracted than she had before, but at the same time there was some mischievous glow in her eyes now, "Look there are a couple of things I need to do tonight, but I'll be back as soon as possible okay."

Aleah quickly makes her way over to the door, looking very determined to get out of this room, but my words stop her in her tracks.

"Is it worth it?"

She turns back around and looks at me, her quizzical gaze fixed on me as she tries to decode my meaning.

"Is what worth it?"

"Winning," I ask softly, "I mean I've seen what you've had to go through, I see what you're still living with. Is it worth surviving through that, is it worth the price?"

She looks at me with her brow furrowed for a few timeless seconds, a million things flashing through her eyes in milliseconds, before he sighs and whispers, "Sometimes, I don't think so. Some days, the really bad days, I'm a little jealous of the ones who didn't survive just because for them it's all over. But at the end of the day, anything and _everything_ is worth living through. Because the good days, they're worth living through the bad days for."

She gives me a small smile and a tiny punch in the shoulder before sobering up again and dropping her head a little.

"They'll be times when you're in there where you want to give up," Aleah says calmly, "Hell, even I had moments. But you just have to remember what waits for you at the finish line: _life_. And from my viewpoint, even if life is harder, life is still better than death. So please, please, please don't give up, because it's worth winning the Hunger Games if it means you get to live."

"I can promise you I won't give up," I say strongly, almost one hundred percent confident in that, "But I want you to promise me something to."

"Anything," she says with a smirk.

"If something goes wrong in there," I say slowly, justifiably the concept of my own death doesn't sit so well with me, "If I don't make it out, I need to know you'll be okay here without me."

She flinches a little, and it's easy to see how against that prospect she is, perhaps even more than I am. What can I say, we've literally been together out entire lives, I hated every single second she was in that hell. And for her it's going to be a hundred times worse because she's going to be able to empathise with me in a way I couldn't even fathom when I watched her.

"I won't be okay, Sean," she says without looking at me, "I'll never be okay. But I'll survive. That's the best I can offer you. But please come back. I can't even think of home without you being there."

"Yeah well there's another difference between you and me," I murmur coldly, the thought still pressing down on my brain, "The people of District Ten don't want me back."

Aleah frowns and glares at her own toes, "Believe me, Sean, they want you back a hell of a lot more than they wanted me back. And at this point, I agree with them."

"You didn't get voted to death by them," I say, attempting a joke but it's really not funny. No matter how you spin it.

"Neither did you," she says softly, and the stab of pain in her eyes is almost more confusing than her words. I mean of course I got voted in, what else could have happened? That it was rigged? That wouldn't make any sense, I mean why would anyone rig the vote so that I'd be put in, what purpose would that serve?

"Will I see you tomorrow?" I ask lightly, walking towards her, "Before...you know."

She gives me a devious grin, "Bright and early. There's no chance they'll get me away from you until they literally have to tear me away."

"Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early," I say with a small smile as I give her a quick hug.

"Goodnight, Sean," she says to me softly, just before turning around and walking out the door.

"Goodbye, Aleah," I whisper, and I can't help but hear the finality in it. Perhaps if I practice saying it enough, it won't kill us both when it's real.

* * *

**Aleah Armani**

* * *

You know, watching the TV and actually going through the Games as a tribute, I never really realised just how much access we mentors actually have. Considering how little help my mentor was last year I guess that doesn't actually come as all that much of a surprise to many of you, or to myself for that matter, but now that I actually am one I am constantly pleasantly surprised at just how much power I have. For example, if I had told you that all I had to do to get access to the District One floor on the training centre, full of crazily juiced up victors as well as psychopathic wannabe murderers, was to swipe my little identification card and type in my personalised four digit pass code (which is 0000 for any of you who wanted to know) I doubt you would really believe me. But seriously, it's just that easy. Honestly it's somewhat of a security threat. I mean what if someone petty and vindictive had access to one of these cards, and desperate for some final act of revenge decided he or she just wanted to just go in and chop up a few tributes for the sake of it. Hey, what are you looking at me for? I'm merely pointing out the few faults in the security system, no need to jump to conclusions.

Anyway you can imagine the surprise on the faces of the residents of the District One training floor when I suddenly appeared in their living room: I guess a visit from me is not exactly the kind of thing you'd look forward to on your potential last day among the living.

"Armani," I hear a shrewd voice call from the couch, which I immediately identify of that as the voice of Ava Hobbs, "What the hell are you doing on my floor at this time of night. Tonight of all nights?"

I roll my eyes as I turn around and fix my leer on Ava's increasingly wrinkled face. To say Ava is the definition of an old hag, well it's kind of not a strong enough image for you. I know, I know, respect for my elders and whatnot, but really if you knew this cranky old shrew you'd probably be considerably more verbal than I am. Perhaps I'm being a little harsh to be calling her old, it's common knowledge that Ava was one of the first victors ever, although I'm not actually sure which one it was she won. Anyway for me at least it just feels like she's been around for centuries, which is probably why I can't help but think of her as some ancient old bat. Truth be told she's probably somewhere in her early-mid forties, but her prematurely greying hair and constant appearance of disapproval just make her look considerably older than she is. Not to mention that her temper and disposition are so unpleasant that she makes me look like a cheerful, optimistic little sprite. I know, that's saying something, but it's really not an exaggeration.

"Oh Ava," I say with fake interest, "It's such a pleasure to see you too. But unfortunately, despite your _gracious_ hospitality I really can't stay long. I just wanted a quick word with your boy over there." I gave a quick nod in the direction of the previously mentioned wannabe murderer, to which I was met with a small surprised look.

"Well then, by all means say what you have to say, Aleah," Ava says impatiently, rising up from the chair to come stand near me, obviously not trusting me all that much, "We don't have all night."

"Sorry, didn't I specify that," I bat my eyelashes a little at Ava, I guess it's really no surprise all it does is make her look more suspicious of me, "I meant talk to the kid _alone._ As in, without you present."

"You could have nothing to say to Canicus that can't be said in front of me," Ava says, her eyes narrowing at the prospect of leaving me alone with her beloved future assassin.

"What? Don't you trust me Ava?" I ask with mock hurt, the melodramatic injury on my face probably one of my best works.

"Not at all," she says, not having to think about it for a second. Okay, fair enough I suppose.

"It's okay Ava," Canicus says, standing up and moving away from his position next to his awfully plastic looking district partner, "I'll talk to her."

I smile triumphantly at Ava, and that drill sergeant face of hers only deepens at the sight of it, "See Ava, your boy trusts me."

Ava glares at me as Canicus leads me towards his room, where assumedly we wouldn't be able to be heard outside. In all honesty, I know that whatever information I choose to pass onto this big blonde buffoon will almost immediately be repeated to Ava and to the little blonde harlot, but that doesn't bother me one bit. The only reason I need Canicus alone is that I'd rather not have constantly disapproving Ava around when I begin to debate the price of my information. Once the career has shut his door and quickly locked it he turn back around to look at me, his sharp green eyes gazing over me suspiciously, mind you no matter how intimidating he might be attempting to be right now he doesn't scare me. I know his type, I've killed people his type, and they're all very much the same. I can't help but notice the disgusting looking bandage on his arm that I noticed him wearing constantly. What is it with district one and scars? Are they secretly specialising in underground cult rituals in which people end up beating the shit out of each other. What? So yeah that's the first thing that came to my mind. What came to yours: a really, really bad paper cut?

"So, perhaps now would be the time to tell me what exactly it is I've done to deserve such an honour as having the great Aleah Armani come visit me," he says with a small smirk, however it doesn't hide his extremely obvious scepticism of me, "Unless, of course, you just came for my enthralling conversation."

I don't laugh, mainly because it's not funny. I do however manage to make his leer look like a bashful little half-smile by rolling my eyes and showing him how to smirk Armani style. It's tempting to just quickly tear him to shreds and show him just how out of his league he is with me but I manage to refrain, I am in somewhat of a hurry after all.

"That's not actually why I'm here, shocking I know," I say, my eyes unwavering locked on his emerald green irises, "I have a business proposition for you, or more correctly, I have information for you."

"Information regarding what?" he asks dubiously, the suspicion in his voice pretty damn palpable.

"Someone in your little alliance of future murderers has been going behind your back," I say matter-of-factly, which immediately peaks his attention, "They've been attempting to recruit outside of the alliance in an attempt to be able to have support within it, you know, in case of a minor coup or whatnot."

Canicus' eyes immediately turn to slits, as he processes this newfound information. Discourse among the career pack, perhaps to those of us with brains it doesn't come as all that much of a shock: I mean when you put that many power-hungry people in a small space what do you expect, but it always seems to come as a surprise to them. Considering he's the leader of the aforementioned wannabe tyrants, Canicus appears to be handling this treacherous information pretty well, however despite his cool appearance I can sense the underlying anger radiating off him. Call it a six sense if you will: my superhuman sense for knowing I've pissed people off.

"And this would be where you give me the name of this traitor, I suppose?"

"Nah-ah, not so fast there kiddo," I say, conveniently ignoring the fact that he is actually a year older than me, "I better than anyone know that in this game information is life and death. I'd be happy to rat out who it is among your dysfunctional little family that is attempting mutiny, but it's not going to come free. Hate to break it to you kid, but I'm not the sort of girl who gives little treasures of wisdom out of the goodness of my own heart."

Canicus grins but at the same time looks doubtful, "News flash, I've seen what happens to the tributes who make deals with you Armani, and needless to say it generally doesn't work out too well for them."

"What makes you say that?" I ask with an innocent bat of my eyelashes.

"They're all dead."

"All right, I'll give you that," I admit with a shrug, "But this is different. This time I'm a mentor, not a tribute. This is not my game to play, it's yours. So are you willing to be dealt in?"

Canicus looks at me guardedly, before quickly asking, "What is it you want?"

I straighten my face, removing any hint of amusement from it because, for this matter at least, I can't afford to joke around.

"I want your word," I say plainly, "I want you to swear right here and right now that if I give you this name, that if I tell you who it is that's going behind your back, that you will do everything in your power to show some kindness to my brother when you're all in the arena."

Canicus immediately frowns at the prospect, and he looks a little like he's going to jump in and say something but I quickly cut him off.

"Now I'm not saying you have to promise me you won't kill him," I say with a small eye roll, "I realise that's an impossible promise to make. All I'm asking is that you do something for Sean, or at least prevent something from happening to him given the chance. Fair enough?"

He looks away from me for a moment, almost looking like he's tossing around a few ideas inside that pea sized cranium of his. Let's not strain ourselves here shall we, perhaps it would be best if he didn't concentrate too hard on something, he might have an aneurism. After a ludicrously long period of time, he looks back around at me.

"How about this. You give me the name and I'll swear to spare Sean's life the first chance I get," Canicus bargains, sounding uncommonly rational for a career, I know that's a hard concept to grasp but it's true, "Sound fair?"

I think about it quickly. Look it's not an _ideal _bargain, but given the circumstances, and how little information I actually have to offer him, it's probably the best offer I'm going to get from him. In a perfect world I would have liked him to offer Sean immunity, but like I said I realise that despite what I may think no one is really _that _stupid. Well perhaps I could have got Skye Azurite to do it...or perhaps Moss Dorian, he's proved his intelligence is considerably smaller than that of a gnat. But considering the fact that this kid is actually mildly intelligent, despite that annoying grin of his that just makes me want to slap him, a one shot immunity option is pretty much as good as it'll get.

"All right," I say with a small nod, "As well as your assurance that prior to that one time where you _don't_ murder my brother, you promise he won't be one of your targets." Hey, what can I say, I'm nothing if not ambitious.

Canicus' frown deepens a little at that, "Your brother was one of the highest scoring tributes, he scored a ten in training. You can't expect us to ignore that."

I manage to refrain from groaning. Once again that bitch's interference has caused me more problems, "I'm not asking you to ignore it. Simply to put it in the back of your mind for a while."

"Fine, you have my word that I won't kill Sean the first chance I get and I'll do my best to make sure he is not one of our targets," Canicus says, outstretching his big meaty hand towards me, "Do we have a deal?"

"Before you agree to this I'll warn you here and now," I carefully threaten, "I'm taking you on your word here. Now I may not be in there to make sure you hold fast to it, but here's the deal. If you go back on this agreement, if you target and kill Sean without a second thought, no one in that arena besides you will have a clue. But I'll know, and you'll know, that you can't be trusted. And when you're leading a group of vicious, distrustful killers, who have been trained all their lives to pick up when someone is lying to them, it probably wouldn't be such a great thing for them to be sensing that you're untrustworthy."

"You don't have to threaten me, Aleah," he says, his hand still outstretched, "I'm making you a deal and I'll honour it as long as you do."

"Then we have an agreement," I say, as I stretch out my apparently tiny hand as it is crushed beneath his crazily huge one. Man it's a good thing my hands got such a beating working on the ranch, if not between this creep and Boston I would have had my hand completely shattered, "Let's hope for your sake you don't forget it."

"I won't," he says, the slap-worthy sneer on his face again, "Now, time for you to pay up. Who is it?"

"Con Roussencourte," I say strongly, "I'm sure you know the one. District Four, sleazy looking, way too much grease in his hair, really annoying accent? Ringing any bells for you, pretty boy?"

Once again, the district one boy looked surprisingly unfazed by my information, however I could still sense the anger radiating off him. Talk about your suppressed anger issues.

"Yeah I know the guy," he says coolly, a little too coolly, "Don't worry your pretty little head. Believe me, I'll deal with the problem immediately."

Perhaps it's just a tendency of really conceited rich people to hover around what it is they want to say in an attempt to be polite, but he might as well have just said, _'Don't worry, I'll kill him,' _because I knew exactly what he meant by 'deal with the problem.' Seriously people need to learn to be less stuck-up and just say what it is they want to say. But that instantly gets me thinking of the other extremely repulsive meeting I need to get around to making tonight, and I'm running out of time. Shit, how can it be nearly ten thirty all ready?

"Well, thank heavens for that," I say with fake relief, "I was just so worried for you, Canicus. Now I'll be able to sleep easy at last. Speaking of sleep, as a mentor I recommend you get some. Believe me, you'll need it."

"I thought you didn't give out little treasures of wisdom for free," he says with a smirk, making me want to hit him all over again.

"Well I guess today is just your lucky day, Canicus," he might not show it but I'm pretty sure that the leer he's getting from me is making him somewhat uneasy. What can I say, I guess I just have that affect on some people, "But unfortunately for you, I have to be going now. As it is, you're not my only engagement for tonight."

* * *

I think I stand outside the door to Room D literally for about half an hour, shaking nervously and internally loathing myself for every single second. My mind races at a mile a minute at just how wrong on every single possible level this is, and how I just simply can't do it, and yet somehow, after mustering up some tiny, insy morsel of courage, I manage to bring my fist to the door and half-heartedly knock. I take a quick gulp from the scotch bottle in my hand as I silently prayed that Heath wouldn't be there, and being miserably let down. To say Heath was surprised to see me standing outside his room, still in my lavender cocktail dress from tonight, with a bottle of scotch in my hand, would be somewhat of an understatement. And to say that I nearly turned and ran out of the room to throw myself off the balcony when I saw him standing at the door, shirtless by the way, would be one also.

"Aleah," he says, not able to hide the surprise in his voice, "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?" I ask, hoping I don't sound as frightfully terrified as I feel in this moment, "I need to ask you something."

"Sure," he says, and he pulls the door back and lets me inside, "Want to sit down?" he asks as he gestures to the bed. Oh god the irony could kill me if I didn't already have shotgun on it.

"Okay," I say weakly, "Want a drink?" I hold the scotch bottle out towards him. This was plan one, get him so bloody drunk that he completely loses all sense of time and space, therefore not realising how sick this is. Yes, it is a tad ambitious this plan, especially since I've never seen him drink more than half a glass of wine but it's better than the alternative.

"Um, no thanks," he says with a quizzical look on his brow, "It's a little late for me."

"Naww come on," I say in what I hope is a seductive tone, "You're not going to make me drink all alone are you, Heath?"

He raises his eyebrow a little, "You're seventeen, you shouldn't be drinking anyway."

"That's true," I say with a little grin, "But I also have a twin brother going into the Hunger Games tomorrow. I think I need it."

He shrugs his shoulders, "Fair point." I take one more large sip out of the bottle, the alcohol running down my throat burning more than I had anticipated, yet it's still kind of comforting. I hand the bottle out to him, giving him a little wink as I do, and he begrudgingly takes it from me and takes a small sip. Must be a lightweight.

"So what is it you want to ask?" he asks, expertly putting the bottle way out of my reach. Damn, law abiding citizen.

I quickly avert my gaze as my brain begins working overdrive to attempt to stall for a few moments while I begin devising some sort of game plan, "I...um...wondered if you perhaps knew how good my chances were of getting Sean a stockwhip as a sponsor present."

Look it's not the greatest cover-up in the world but it was that or asking him about his favourite type of cheese that popped into my brain first.

He looks at me questioningly, almost like he can see through me crappy attempt at deflection, "I have the price guide hanging around in a draw somewhere. Hang on one second."

When his back's to me I quickly look him over. Could he be attractive, you know, if he hadn't left me to rot in some stinking wasteland for two weeks? He's certainly not ugly, and I'll admit that even for District Ten I can see that he's physically very well built. He has that clichéd almost roughish look that is apparently somewhat attractive, not that I can vouch for it, you know the sandy blonde hair, firmly set jaw, lightly tanned skin. Alright, perhaps in some light he could be considered attractive, but that doesn't forgive the fact that he's _Heath. _Enough said.

He turns back around, a little red leather book in his hands and he quickly sifts through the pages, "Well a stockwhip won't be cheap, and you'll have to get it to him early or you'll have no chance, but it's manageable."

"Even for someone with the social skills of a Great White?" I joke, lying back on my elbows on the bed and, not so subtly I think, arching my chest slightly upwards. Time to see whether these plastic pieces of junk can actually do anything besides give me a backache.

"Yes, even for you," he says with a ghost of smile on his lips. It quickly becomes silent as he tries to figure out what I'm really doing here and I try to stop myself from crumbling down, bursting out in tears and screaming bloody murder.

"Was there anything else you wanted?" he asks, obviously fishing for something to work with. I respond with the first question that pops into my head, even though it's one that's been there for over a year.

"Why didn't you send me anything?" I ask quickly but straight-faced, "In the arena. I know I had sponsors so why didn't I get anything?"

He sighs, "This again, Aleah?"

"Yeah, this again," I say with a roll of my eyes, "I think I have a right to know why my mentor left me for dead."

He doesn't say anything, just averts eye contact and looks out through his window. Coward.

"Did you hate me for what I did to Boston?" I shoot, rattling off random theories, "Wish that I had been nicer to the fat brute? Or perhaps after the whole 'carving my initials into Onyx's back' thing your hatred became unsurpassable. Or maybe you just thought I was a god awful person who shouldn't be allowed to live any longer-"

"They didn't _let_ me, Aleah!" Heath says sternly, "They wouldn't let me send you anything!"

"What?" I ask, sounding considerably puzzled. I mean come on; I've been abusing the guy about this for nearly a year now you think he might have spoken up a little more to defend himself. Masochistic perhaps?

"They didn't want you to win, Aleah," he yells, the pent up anger he's been harbouring all year in full swing now, "Every time I tried to send you something I was denied. Admittedly yes, I didn't want to send you anything until after Boston had died because as you repeatedly remind me I liked him better than you. I won't lie about it, you were cruel and unsympathetic and torturous towards him and it really brought out the worst in you. But after that I did try, and nothing I tried worked."

"So they wanted me to die," I say plainly, "Why?"

"Can't you maybe think of why?" he replies, the tone of his voice making it sound obvious, "I told you last year you're everything they hate in a victor. Plus, the wanted Elia Zervakos to win so that they could use her and her baby against her husband and vice versa. They had it planned so the showdown would favour her not you, but she had an unfortunate miscalculation with Jules Surket."

"So they wanted me dead and you couldn't think of any way to prevent it or help me?"

"More or less, yeah."

"That's not quite good enough, Heath," I say matter-of-factly and he nods.

"I know," he says with a small, tragic smile, "And you'll never let me live it down. But, despite what you think, you can take comfort in the fact that I don't hate you nearly as much as you think I do."

"But you do hate me?" I confirm, feeling my chances of committing this horrible and disgusting deed slipping further and further away.

He grins, "No, I don't think I do. But I think we're a still a while away from me liking you any substantial amount."

I don't know what it was that makes me do it, but then and there I can sense that this is my moment. I quickly get up on my knees, lean across and while securing his face in my hands press my lips against his and kiss him. Now, I know this will shock you, but surprisingly enough I _don't_ have boys beating down my doors to kiss me often so I'm not exactly expert at kissing anyone, but for one small second I could swear he almost kisses me back. But after that one millisecond he pulls me away from him, pushing my hands away and quickly retreating back a few inches.

"Aleah! What the hell are you doing?" he asks as he backs away even further.

"What?" I ask with a small and innocent bat of my eyelashes.

"What on earth just came over you?"

"I don't know but I think it just came over you too." I say with a small wink, leaning over a little to try and get closer to him.

He flushes red, with anger or embarrassment I'm not really sure but neither is really a great sign for me here. I quickly jump over so that I end up sitting in his lap, despite his protest, and slowly pushed him back down onto the bed so that I'm leaning over him, my hands pressed against his bare chest. He freezes for a moment, his eyed wide and incredulous as he probably tries to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, but as I lean down so close that my long dark hair is cascading over my shoulder and touching his skin he quickly pushes me off him and shakes his head a little while backing away.

"Aleah, stop this," he says, retreating backwards as I inch in closer to him, "You've been drinking, you're distressed about Sean, you're just vulnerable right now and I'm not going to take advantage of that."

I'll admit, vulnerable is probably a terribly accurate word right now, but not for _any_ or the reasons he thinks. Either way, I can work with that.

"What if I want you to?" I ask, my fingers slowly prying open one of the buttons near the bust of my dress in a way that I really hope is seductive but is probably just clumsy. His eyes widen for a second as he creeps back even further.

"Aleah! Stop this!"

"Oh come, on," I say inching even closer towards him, "Can you really say you haven't thought about it?"

He turns a ridiculous shade of red, so damn flushed in fact that it makes me think he actually _has _thought about it. Which of course makes me just as embarrassed as he is. Damn him. But then something seems to click in his brain and he looks at me with a look of almost pure abhorrence.

"This is what they were here for wasn't it?" he asks, the shock and repulsion in his voice both vying for greater prominence, "To make you...Oh god."

I throw the little white card at him while saying, "This was the address of my first 'client.' The irony is just delightful isn't it? That out of everyone is the entire world, they pick you."

"Aleah, you have to leave now," he says firmly but there's a stark pain in his eyes as he looks between me and the little white card in his hand, probably knowing that it means he won't be my only client either way, "You're seventeen...it's...I can't...please just go now before you try and do something you'll regret."

"Aren't you listening," I ask incredulously, "I don't have a choice here. And believe me I already regret everything that's happened in the last hour. But I can't keep refusing them anymore because it's not me they'll take it out on. It's Sean."

"I'm sorry, Aleah," he says strongly, holding the door in his hands so tightly it looks like he's digging into the mahogany, "I'm sorry about Sean, the arena, everything. But I _can't_ do this."

"You owe me," I say strongly, and he turns around and looks at me with his face set in a hard line, "You left me in that arena to die, no matter what your excuse may be. You still had options and you didn't use them. You owe me."

He's still holding the door open, but his grip on the door has faltered a little and his face which had been set in stone looks like it's cracking slightly.

I throw my hands up in the air desperately, "I'm doing this for Sean. Because it's my fault that he's in here and if I keep refusing them, if I keep saying no they'll kill him before I get a chance to help. But I'm also doing it because-" my voice catches in my throat as I feel stinging behind my eyes, "because I trust you not to hurt me anymore."

He looks away from me, his body shaking violently and the muscles in his arms pulsing as he grips tighter onto the wooden frame of the door.

"So, if you do this for me I'll call us even," I say determinedly, knowing that this costs him almost as much as it costs me, so perhaps it's worth giving up my sworn oath to hate him for all of eternity, "You won't owe me anymore. I'll never mention it again. Just help me save my brother. Please."

In what seems like one movement, Heath firmly slams the door behind him before grabbing me by the arm and pulling me in towards him, his lips strongly enveloping mine as one of his hands presses against my waist and the other going down the side of my thigh. I wrap my arms around his neck, and press my body into his as his hands cover the contours of my hips. Apparently the raw passion and anger is far easier for both of us to channel, rather than feeling the incredible humiliation and disgust I imagine he's feeling just as strongly as I am.

Within seconds his hands are at the hem of my ruffled lavender dress, and as clothes become harshly torn off both of our bodies I can feel the surprisingly prominent muscles under Heath's skin tense with every touch and every movement. Once we're both bare, more exposed and vulnerable than I've ever been in my entire life, somehow we make it towards the bed. And despite the heat and the rage that we both seem to be channelling to make it possible for us to survive this, I can't help but notice the small tear that runs down my cheek as Heath gently but expertly presses me down onto the sheets.

* * *

**Sean Armani**

* * *

A friend once asked me one of those deep, philosophical questions about death: you know the kind, the ones you really don't want to think about because they bug you either way. Yep, it was one of those. I don't remember the exact storyline or the little parable he told but I think in the end there were two choices. It was basically something along the lines of: you were dying of some terminal disease and doctors could calculate the precise moment you were going to die. So the question was, would you rather know the date so that you could plan everything you wanted to do within the time you had left, or would you rather not know, continue living life the exact same way and then just drop dead one day? Back then the question had disturbed me, I think it would take a certain type of person to not be disturbed by something like that, but ultimately I think I had decided I would want to know. Back then I suppose it appealed to me to be able to settle all my affairs and make sure I left no loose ends. But now, lying on the almost too soft covers on my waterbed and staring at my ceiling, I decide that I choose the second option. Because this, this moment right now, where you are standing on the edge of a cliff and waiting to be pushed into oblivion, this is torture.

I guess you take for granted how easy it is to sleep when your mind is at ease. It's a simple matter of close your eyes, rest your head and nod off to sleep. But when your mind is in the absolute state of paranoia and chaos that mine is going through right now, sleep is almost unfathomable. How on earth am I supposed to sleep when I can't possibly even imagine just how horrified, damaged and broken I'm going to be this time tomorrow? Oh and then of course there's that very real possibility that I'm not actually going to be alive next time tomorrow, which of course encourages pleasant dreams.

Imagine the worst place I possibly can and times it by a factor of ten Aleah said. Well right now the arena could be a candy land filled with marshmallow trees and honeydew flowers and I would still be absolutely terrified. I literally cannot bear to think about where I will be less than twelve hours from now and it's not exactly the kind of thinking that encourages peaceful slumber.

I think it was exhaustion that got me in the end, because there was no way that it was a peaceful sleeping experience. Because no matter how perfectly I could have slept that night, nothing on earth could have prepared me for what I would face the next day.


	40. A Panem Horror Story

**So, we're alot of clowning around here, it's kind of what we do. We write about dark and depressing stuff and we hope/pray that we don't have to experience it. But we do at times, maybe that's why we write stuff like this-so people can feel the heartache, the joy, and the pain we feel so that we don't feel quite so alone. No one likes to feel alone.**

**Our hearts, prayers, wishes, thoughts go out to NicKenny during this time of loss in his life.**

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**LoveIsBlindness' Note:** Just to warn you, there's a tiny bit of animal abuse in this chapter, but it's not very detailed. Also, I don't own the song at the end- it's belongs to a part of the song called Die Dead Enough by Megadeth.

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**Launch- Jet Matthews (District Two Male) by LoveIsBlindness**

* * *

"_No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality."_

_~ Shirley Jackson, _The Haunting of Hill House

* * *

It's all going to begin…_today._

The chaos, the blood, the screams; the delight agitating inside me.

All of those are going to begin today, because it is the launch day… The beginning of the battlefield I awaited for days and _days_. This is the day when I finally grasp the chance to escape from the reality which I cannot stay _sane_ in no longer now. I will be rising up into the arena amongst others, and finally catch glimpse of the arena that us, Tributes, had been destined to lay feet on since the Reapings.

And in the arena…death will come. Death would take its loaded, dense burden onto all of us; it will allow the gates of Hell open and let out the demons. And the demons will roam over the arena, conflicting pain, grief, fear and a sufficient amount of blood…

"_And you'll…join those demons…It's intolerable to just simply die,"_ the voices whisper synchronously. My teeth clamp and grind together as a nasty sneer takes hold of my features.

"Why would I die?" I snap in respond to the echoing voices.

Silence is all I receive; they don't have an _answer_ for me. I inhale exasperatedly, lashing out my arms from beneath the folds of unstained, hygienic, white sheets of the four-poster bed I'm lounging in. A soft ray of sunlight emit from outside through the silk, gold curtains and casting a golden hue onto the elaborate furniture adorning the room. My gaze slick throughout the room, beholding the sight of the boxed room that Avox servants pampered over for days and days.

One of the numerous things that I don't understand is why people are so judgmental and obsessed on looks and appearances. I mean, to me, my facial looks are not useful at all. What use of looks? It's puzzles me even more that the Capitol is overly obsessed with indulging the Tributes with arrays of dresses and trays of food before sending them to their death…

The Opening Ceremonies and interviews were all…a waste of time.

I wearily glide over the edge of the large bed, untangling myself from the sheets of my duvet. The very sight of the bed brings on a wave of sleepiness, and I groggily blink my eyes. Momentarily, I stand there, basking in the heat of the sunlight, relishing the feel of the heat smoothing over my exposed skin. The feeling of security is alight in me.

Once I enter the arena, this feeling will disappear like an ice cube melting in the sunlight. _Do I really want to…lose this feeling?_

"_You don't need security,"_ Rebecca's voice sourly wakes up inside my head. _"You only need me and the urge to kill… Don't you ever think like this; you're a monster who is going to mutilate human beings. You're going to create a battlefield…"_

The acidic voice of Rebecca's welcome a feeling of danger and adrenaline. Her voice is comforting to me; when she is present everything is alright. Whenever she is absent I always experience the torment of feeling like I'm on the verge of sanity.

"Yes… I will create a battlefield," I murmur frostily. So the sensation of nostalgia disperse gradually as I stroll out onto the baloney of the room which I'm occupying for this year. Once the glass door slides open, a strong waft of wind pummel my face, weave through my greasy strands like rivers. I squint my eyes close together and peer through narrow slits after the strong sunlight hit my eyes. I step nearer to the brim of the balcony my hands caressing the glass wall that divide me from the endless depth of the Training Centre's building. My gaze drift leisurely over the grand, white buildings of the Capitol; the glass windows on the buildings glint with brightness as the light shine onto them, vivid flowers tremble in the breeze on the balconies, silhouettes glide pass the dark windows in the buildings opposite me.

All of this beauty doesn't phase me at all, however it does to many people. It is just a thing among others, like age is solely a number. The only thing that will be _beautiful_ to me is the arena… An area where blood, screams and cutting into flesh would take place. _My home… _My impending fate is looming near…

"_It's going to be a novelty…"_ the gruff and terse voice of Brick mutters inside my head.

"_Of course it's going to be a _novelty_,"_ Hanna snaps, the sound of her voice stab like knives at me from inside.

A sharp rap of knocking penetrates the whispering inside my head. A hollering voice is slightly muffled by the wooden door which divides us, "It's me, Rainbow! You better have an excuse to explain why you are _so_ late for breakfast this morning!"

That bulimic escort is consistently pestering and annoying me the past few days. To me, he resembles a skeleton with eyeballs and a thin drape of skin coating his bones accurately. My escort sure does know how to provoke me… A sensation of dreariness rush over me like a tidal wave as I turn and skulk through the glass doors and towards the wooden door that sits at the end of the room.

The door swings open after I unlock it. Rainbow flashes me with one of his cheesy grins that is combined with glee and excitement. "Finally! Oh wait…you're not even dressed yet! What have you been doing?"

I try to muster a smile in respond, but my face is completely and utterly blank and void of emotions. "I just got up; sleeping was _what_ I've been doing," I retort.

Rainbow waves dismissively, oblivious to my façade as he allows it roll off him. He exclaims, "Oh my gosh! It's all beginning today! Ain't you excited?"

"Of course," I reply. For once, a sly smile spread across my face. Rainbow squeals and bounces a little on his feet; he is _remarkably _excited…

Rainbow heaves in a sigh, visibly forcing himself to calm down. "Anyway, you better get washed and dressed right away, because you have to live up to everybody's expectation. Then come down to the dining room. Now, I have to go and wake up Sade-"

With that, he skips off down the corridor with a wolfish grin on his face. The stiff smile on my face immediately falls at the merest mention of my District Partner; Sade. _That little spoilt brat…_ Nothing- apart from her- can give me a terrible urge of hatred. There's _something_ about her that pesters at me on and on; something that I despise and long to destroy… The smile she upholds, the sparkle in her eyes, the laughter that erupts from her lips- everything about her makes me itch to grab a dagger and cut into her soft flesh, chop off her fingers, dig out her eyeballs and chew into them…

I hate everything about her. I hate the way her words sound so soft, so elegant and sweet against my eardrums; so much like how my mother sounded… I hate how she reminds me of my mother with her smooth words and rare smile. I hate how she eyes me with suspicion in her eyes. I hate it when she mentions my friend and Mentor; Rebecca. How _dare_ she utter a sentence about Rebecca. How _dare_ she not respect Rebecca…

"_Don't think about her. She's not worth it. And she'll soon get it coming for her in the arena…"_ Rebecca assures me calmly, with a small hint of amusement in her voice.

I force myself to breath heavily just to calm myself down; the knowledge that Rebecca is here to guide me whenever I need help gives a soothing feel to my mind, it reassures me that everything will be alright… She's constantly here for me… Only her. And Brick and Hanna.

They are the only ones here for me… _I can only trust them._

* * *

After a quick wash in the shower, and when I'm dressed in thick, clothing for the morning, I leave the bedroom, relishing the sensation that time for entering the arena is nearer… My heart feels like it is swelling; filling with swirl-storms of anticipating emotions. My stomach is slightly nausea as if there are butterflies fluttering around inside.

My footsteps clank echoingly down the corridor as I stride through, half of my face concealed in the shadows, my hands tightened into fists at my sides. The voices inside my head are sniggering with excitement for the beginning of the Games… I'm in a trance-like mood; the reality is nonexistent now to me as I recall the night of murdering my parents. I can vividly remember when I ripped out the guts of my father whilst my mother wailed with anguish pain and struggle weakly in the ropes which were tied around her. I remember when I watched the life disperse from my father's eyes, watch as his hand fall limp and slack. I remember the begging of my mother as I slowly worked away at her, my knife carving into her stomach…

The only thing that brings a tidal wave of displeasure to my guts are the last three words my mother uttered to me before she died: _Rot in Hell…_

After those words, I realised for a moment that what I just done to my parents was…terrible. But then Rebecca comforted me, saying that killing them was not a big deal… She said they deserved it. That they were going to kill me if I didn't kill them before they could hurt me…

I walk around the corner and suddenly come crashing into somebody, landing right onto my bottom. My eyes shoot up to catch sight of the person. And it surprises me considering that the person is my archenemy…

"_Sade,"_ Rebecca's voice hisses sharply and maliciously. _"By wary. She's looking at you like she wants to rip out your heart and watch you die… She doesn't care if you die. You are nothing to her…"_

My gaze turn into a dagger-sharp glare, piercing right through Sade.

She glares back at me, bouncing onto her feet as she stands back up. With a little huff, she tosses her mane of blonde hair as she looks down onto me… Her eyes look so much like my mother's… There is a hint of hatred in them that is mirror-like to the look in my mother's eyes before she died.

"Oh, how clumsy!" Sade scoffs at me.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I snap, suddenly wary of her presence. _Is she here to kill me? What is she doing here? She isn't supposed to see me before the bloodbath…_

Sade waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, I was heading back for my token which I nearly forgot."

"_She's a liar. Don't listen to her,"_ whisper the voices.

Despite what Sade said, my eyes narrow into suspicious slits. "No, you're a liar, _whore_. You're here to _kill_ me…"

Sade sighs dramatically and rolls her deep, green eyes. "Oh my gosh, are you stupid or something? Of course I want to kill you, but I'm not allowed until the Games begin. Which is a shame."

My hands unclench and clench, the muscles in my arms flex with anger, my blue eyes turn stormy like a mist of sleeting rain. Sade watches me, a smirk playing with the corners of her lips. _She is laughing at me!_

Suddenly, adrenaline course throughout me as I leap up and shove Sade up to the wall behind her. My hands curl around her smooth throat, my face redden, combined with pleasure and anger, as I watch Sade's eyes bulge slightly out of their sockets.

Automatically, she tries to break free, but doesn't succeed (my hands are gripping around her neck like a vice, unbreakable). Fortunately for her, my fingers don't tighten on their grasp so she still can breath steadily…for now. She gives me a hard glare.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she snarls menacingly, trying to wiggle out of my hold again until she eventually gives up.

I chuckle sharply, the salvia that escape my lips spray over her face. "I'm going to get my unfinished job done. I know you're in"- I stab a finger directly at Sade's forehead- "there."

"_Unfinished_ job? And what the _heck_ do you think is in my head? A brain?" she fires back furiously. Her green eyes glinting with hatred. Momentarily, I don't say anything. I'm just deathly still, _waiting_. She struggles again in my grip, her beating pulse inside her throat pumps faster. "SAY SOMETHING!"

I don't bat an eyelid. "Getting all flustered, are you?"

"You didn't answer my questions." She casts her eyes downwards, avoiding my eyes. "Anyway, you can't kill me- you would get in deep trouble."

The corners of my lips twitch with displeasure. She's saying the truth now. If I kill her before the Games, I might get myself killed by the Head Gamemaker, Phoenix. Everybody know how short-tempered and cruel Phoenix is, and how she is always willing to kill anybody…

Laughter tumbles from Sade's lips. "You know I'm saying the truth, so let me go…_now_."

My teeth clamp together, the muscles in my jaw tighten aggressively and painfully. _She's playing with me._ My mother is playing with me…

Suddenly, Stone's (my Mentor) gruff voice fill my head. _You will only kill others in the arena. Don't hurt or kill anybody before your game._

My facial expression harden at the memory of Stone drilling in the rule of not hurting anybody before the Games on the day of the Reaping. Stone's words echo around inside my head. There's no way I can just screw up my promise. I own Stone for sure. He is the one who was campaigning to get me voted into the Games…

My skeletal fingers slowly drop from Sade's slender throat. She swallows heavily and her entire composure relaxes when she realises that I'm giving up… But, no, I'm not giving up. I will get back at her in the arena.

The question is: should I kill her in the bloodbath? _Would Canicus even allow that?_

"What is going on here?"

I crane my neck around, my eyes landing onto my rather formal looking stylist. His hazel brown eyes squint together with suspicion and displeasure addressed at us, his spotless, white bowtie perches elegantly on the collar of his black shirt that is tucked neatly beneath his black tuxedo. He strolls towards us with his hands folded behind his back, the corridor is filled with the horrible, squeaky noise of his clean, polished shoes sliding on the floor.

I hate my stylist… His name is Gregory Drake. He's a condescending, stuck-up snob who is always giving me disdainful glares like he wishes that the moon would drop out of the sky and hit me on the head, killing me instantly.

"I just can't simply understand why you two can't get on…" he mutters haughtily, his eyes roaming over us two. Once his eyes land onto the sore, redden marks that adorn Sade's neck, he gets all flustered as he turns onto me. "_What_did you do to Sade? Why did you do that? Don't you know you can easily get into trouble for it? Why can't you just be friends with-"

"We cannot _ever_ be friends," I hiss, "And she deserved it. I know who is inside her head-"

"Are _you mad_?" Sade scowls fiercely. Gregory waves his hand hastily, demanding for our attention to be on him only.

"Listen, listen, you kids, just stop messing around and be friends. I mean, you two are allies-"

"Which hopefully won't last too long," I mutter.

Gregory shoots me a hard glare before continuing. "Stop interrupting, you little sod. You two are a disgrace to District Two, it's such a surprise that they voted in the most annoying kids into this Quarter Quell. I thought they would vote in proper Career kids."

"_Don't listen to him. It is all lies- you are not a disgrace. Anyway, you will return as a hero,"_ Brick murmurs modestly. I purse my lips together, crinkling them into a smirk as I soak in the words that Brick just uttered. Why should I listen to some imbecile like Gregory? He has absolutely no experience in this Games; he have never killed before.

Gregory immediately catches glimpse of my smirk, and his face redden with fury. "What did you find funny?"

"I found you funny," I retort. Beside me, Sade laughs against her own will. She slaps a palm over her full-lips and looks shocked that she laughed at my jest.

Gregory's eyes gleam with anger. He says patronisingly, "Oh, I have enough of you two fools. Now, Jet, it's time to go to the roof."

"_It's finally time…"_ the voices chant. Despite the ominous sensation stirring inside me, I'm filled with excitement and anticipation. It's finally going to happen- my battlefield is going to come to life…

Without another word, Gregory swivel on his heel and struts off down the corridor, leaving behind a mist of his musky fragrance in the air. I flick Sade one last little, menacing smirk before departing down the corridor, following Gregory's steps. The lights in the candelabras flicker weakly and cast subtle shadows onto the walls. The corridor widen to reveal the dining room which is empty and silent. The curtains are drawn across the windows, blocking the sun's entry.

A loud tsk create disturbing noise against my eardrums, I glance towards Gregory who is waiting for me, his finger hovering over the button for the elevator to open. Once I'm right beside him, he presses onto the button and the glass doors slide open, welcoming us in. I prop myself up by gripping onto the handrails whilst the elevator zoom upwards, the ground shaking beneath our feet. Gregory just remains still and silent through the journey…

"_Be careful, he got a weapon. You can't trust him. If he turns to face you, kill him,"_ Rebecca says. I can vividly imagine her black, soulless eyes on Gregory's back, glaring daggers into his heart.

The elevator lurches to a sudden halt and the doors slide open. Promptly, the sunlight blinds me and I blink for a moment, trying to readjust to the light. When my sight returns, I peer out into the open sky and catch a blurry glimpse of a hovercraft sitting in the centre of the roof which is adorned with beautiful roses, electric and vibrating colours of flowers. Gregory marches straight to the hovercraft, the wind blowing wildly through his loose strands, his tuxedo wrinkles slightly as the strong breeze bash against it.

I walk out of the elevator, following in tow. Once the wind hits me, I'm nearly blown off my balance, so I stumble clumsily. Gregory cranes his neck over towards me and laughs derisively. I shoot him a nasty sneer, which he bluntly ignores and makes a gesture with his arm- motioning for me to hurry up.

There is a white ladder that pops out from the hovercraft and halts directly in front of me. Without a second thought, my hands lash out to grip onto the ladder. And suddenly…I freeze. Not from shock or anything, but it's like the touch of the ladder have jolted me into a trance-like daze where I cannot move my limbs in spite of the urging inside my head. A droning sound fill my ears as the ladder lifts me up into the hovercraft…

I can't even blink against the bright lights inside the hovercraft. A woman dressed in a long cloak of white steps forward, in her hand is a long, plastic tube. And injection… I grit my teeth as she sinks the sharp injection into my arm, pumping out something beneath my thick skin.

"That's the tracking device so we can know where you are in the arena," she tells me. And with that, she retreats from the room, leaving me with my stylist.

The ladder eventually lets go of me, and I flex my muscles and wind my shoulders, trying to bring back the usual sensation in them. I _hated_ that experience. I felt powerless when she injected me. I couldn't do a single thing, except waiting, because the ladder had me frozen. I could hit the woman aside, I couldn't sneer in her face, I couldn't flinch away from the injection. I most _definitely_ don't want to go through that again…

"Follow me," Gregory orders bluntly. He crisply spins around and strides out of the room, not even pausing for me to catch up. Before leaving the room, my eyes slick throughout the room… It is all spotless and white, like a science lab.

I depart from the room and follow the sharp, clanking noise of Gregory's footsteps. There are no windows in sight; no over-looking view of the Capitol. I come across nobody, apart from Gregory, as I enter a large room which appears to be a dining room considering it has a polished, long table beside a wide window over-viewing the mountains which surround the Capitol. So already the hovercraft is flying…

I slump down onto a chair, facing Gregory. A creaking noise penetrates through the stony silence, and I glance up to see Avox servants carrying golden platters with a dozen of food flooding over the surface of them. Gregory immediately dismisses them with a small wave after they have laid out plates of food for us to devour.

Gregory slowly leans forward, the bow-tie encircling his neck gleam like silk in the bright lights that emit from the bare light-bulbs above our heads. A disdainful smile crinkles his lips, and he says, "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" I ask mockingly, "Of course I'm ready. Killing will be so easy and _fun_."

Momentarily, Gregory watches my facial expression, probably trying to read it. Disgust is prominent in his eyes. The exposed, raw emotion makes me chuckle to myself. I just don't understand why several people often give me disgusted looks. What did I do? Did I say something gross?

"_He is disgusted that you like to kill…"_ Hanna tells me. A laugh tumbles from my lips. Her comment relaxes my muscles, and I pick up the silver fork and begin to dig into my food. I'm fairly used to having people thinking that I'm disgusting for enjoying the thrill of killing.

They have _no_ idea what they are missing out on…

They miss out on the adrenaline; the blast of a nice, boozy feel. They miss out the tingle of giddiness and excitement. They miss out the kick that pushes you onto the verge of sanity… They miss out the moment which arouses you to the brutal and beautiful world of death…

"So, you're repulsed by me, huh?" I say flatly. My sharp eyes fleeting from between my plate of food up to Gregory's paled face and back to my plate. Gregory doesn't make a response, he's just silent and watching me as I quickly empty the plate of food. Silence invades the room yet again, forcing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise up. Eventually, my plate is empty, and my eyes shift back up to Gregory.

His eyes widen a little as I wave around the silver knife gaily. He leans slowly back against the soft couch, watching me warily. I scoff a little at his behaviour. No one can mistake the fact that he is _frightened _of me. "Scared that I can kill you?"

A rush of a sensation that feels like power flood through my bloodstream. For once, I get to see Gregory frightened of me, and it gives me the feeling of power… _I guess I should get used to this feeling in the arena…_

"_You're already used to it,"_ Rebecca murmurs to me, I can practically feel her breath on my ear… I can feel her presence more vividly… She's here with me. _"Remember your first kills… And remember the first time Stone bought you a present."_

_A present…_

_Yes_, I can remember it. My eyes gradually go glassy as my mind drift over the many years I lived with Stone in his grand house resting in the Victor's Street… At the age of six, Peacekeepers kept at me, asking me dozens of questions, all to find out who murdered my parents. I was completely and utterly clueless as I couldn't remember the night properly- the memory shocked me into forgetting it. Many people suspected it was me who murdered them… But then my innocence and naivety destroyed their suspects. That was only until the voices told me to remember; they told me the actions I made, the cutting of the knife I held, the murder I committed. Then I remembered. And I told everybody because of my madden outbursts and tantrums… A lot of people were unsure about what to do, because, hell, it's District Two! The citizens in this District are used to murder, insanity, and blood-thirst. Eventually, they decided to drop me into a prison cell, because I wasn't a Career kid.

But then, Stone Hathaway showed interest in me. And he bought me. He took me to his house. He made me his son. Well…not really a son, but a kid who he trained. He said he bought me because he knew I was _perfect_.

The first present Stone gave me was on my ninth birthday- the sky outside was grey and stormy with flashes of lightning striking the sky with talons-like lines of silver. On my ninth birthday, I wasn't expecting a present or anything of the kind, because in the past few years, Stone never bought me anything. He told me that birthdays mean _nothing._ That they are a waste of money; a waste of time. But on the early morning of my birthday, Stone told me he had to go somewhere, and he dressed himself into a dense, black leather coat and ran out into the heavy hail with the roaring of the thunder above his head. I watched him run away from the window of the kitchen, he was running at a quick speed like he was desperate to get to somewhere. For some reason, I was suspicious because usually he would just walk if he wants to go the pub to drink until he passes out.

Eventually, he arrived home an hour later. I listened to his footsteps carefully; my ears perked up intensely. And his footsteps weren't wobbly, shuffling or tripping. He was walking steadily, and that told me he never went to the pub. Stone went through into the training room where I was practicing with a long sword, the whistling of the sword pierced through the air. And what he had in his hands shocked me…

It was my first birthday present from Stone.

"Here, kid, is your birthday present," he said, panting with exhaustion like he just ran up a steep mountain, smiling slyly as he draws closer to me. He holds out the thing in his hands towards me. I reluctantly took it from him. My face grim and twisting into a sneer as I stared down at the thing in my calloused palms.

It was a _puppy_.

The eyes of the creature stared directly up at me… The eyes are a dark chocolate colour, round like saucepans. The sight of the _innocent_ little thing made an anguish growl ripple from my lips. And the puppy whimpered, twitching its whiskers as it leaned away from me.

"Why did you get me _this_?" I snarled, my eyes glaring directly at Stone. Stone chuckles and slaps a hand onto my bony shoulder.

"Look at it. It's _alive_. It's not like those dummies you have to destroy. This is alive, so close to a living human. The reason why I bought this for you is not to pamper over it, to love it, but to _hate_ it. To destroy it…" Stone told me.

"_He means to kill it. The thing is now your punch-bag, you can give it all you have,"_ Rebecca's hoarse voice sounded in my ears. She sounded thirsty, greedy.

I was slow to soak in the words, to drink them in, to register what she meant… But when I finally got what she and Stone meant, I grinned wildly. There was a hint of insanity, blood-thirstiness and lust in my face…

And so, after I killed the little thing, Stone continually bought me new animals to _play_ with. He loved how I treated the animals like they're my preys, how I chased them in the house with a butcher knife, how I cackled whilst breaking their bones… For years and years, I killed numerous of animals; cats, dogs, birds, even little animals like hamsters.

But then it all stopped when I turned age fourteen. I was angry that Stone never got me another animal after I broke the neck of a cream-coloured cat. I had to keep all of my anger bottled up inside me for those weeks, I kept myself in my bedroom, making a dozen of sharp, make-shift knives and imagining as I sank these knives into the flesh of my victims, and scrape the hard bones beneath the skin.

Eventually, I confronted Stone and demanded where was my next present. He wouldn't reply, so I threw around plates and forks, finally releasing the anguish emotions inside me. Eventually, he stopped me and explained to me… He told me what I dreaded to come true… He told me that people suspected that we were abusing animals. The shop owners of the pet stores became increasingly unsure about the fact that Stone was buying hundreds of animals from their shops. And Stone gradually recognized unease and suspicion in these people, that he stopped buying animals.

At first, I was furious. I pummelled at a punching bag, feeling the anger inside me erupt from the pores of my skin. But days later, I realized that we could had been arrested, so I understood the reason for not buying them. However, I was still aggressive about it-

"May I ask something?" A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts, tearing the memory apart to shreds. I blink, my mind returning back to the reality and abandoning the memory. I crane my neck towards Gregory. He is rubbing his hands together like the air is suddenly chilly, his eyes squinted as he studies me.

"Ask me what?" I snap bluntly, eyes piercing through Gregory.

"Are you a sociopath?"

I blink, suddenly taken aback. "A what?"

"A sociopath. If you are one then you have no feelings, no emotions, no sympathy for others. And you obviously have all symptoms of having that," Gregory says matter-of-factly, not batting an eyelid.

I stare at him, my face void and unreadable. Automatically, I lurch up onto the soles of my feet, my upper lip curling backwards to grace a snarl. "Is that an _insult_? You know what, you are a waste of time."

Gregory remains silent, his fingers intertwine and motionless. My gaze slick towards the window beside us, I see nothing but forests; an endless stretch of green trees. I bet we are now miles and miles away from the Capitol. "Are we nearly there?"

Gregory blinks hard, as if he just got out of a trance. He pulls out an old-fashioned watch swinging on a golden chain. For a second, he peers at the time and glances back up at me. "Yes. It's time to leave in a minute."

With that said, he stands up, carefully pulling a handkerchief from his collar and resting it onto the table. He waves a gesture for me to follow and departs from the room. I grit my teeth together, clenching my jaw with rage prominent in my eyes. I _hate_ being ordered around… How would I handle Canicus ordering _me_ around?

"_Don't you worry about Canicus,"_ Rebecca says, _"He is just like you. I'm sure you two will be good friends…"_

_Me and Canicus?_ I frown as I walk down a corridor. I suppose that he is a bit like me; we both share the desire for blood. But what if he stabs me in the back? What if he controls me?

"Should I just kill him?" I mutter, asking Rebecca directly.

"_No, you can't kill your allies until I say so,"_ she says slyly, a small laugh bubbling from inside her.

"And when is that?" I demand, gritting my teeth in frustration.

"_When I feel like things are getting…boring,"_ she cackles, the taste of madness seeping from her voice. My pale eyes squint together as I consider her words… I suppose she is right… But why should I wait? _"You should wait, because you never know what the other Careers might give you in favour of being their ally."_

I grunt in displeasure. The urge to kill Sade once I'm dumped in the arena is so intense and strong that the merest thought of having to wait makes me want to _scream…_

"Are you talking to yourself?" Gregory raises an eyebrow as he casts a look over his shoulder towards me. I shoot him a sneer and not bother to respond even with just one.

The talking of Canicus brings on a wave of memories of each Career; I ponder over each of my allies. There is Admire, Canicus, Sade, Con and Roulla. Out of all, I don't trust any of them… Well, I trust Canicus the most considering he is the leader and is running our pack. I definitely don't trust Sade, of course. She's my biggest enemy. And I don't trust Admire, Con or Roulla, either.

The past few days, I'd been quiet, but waiting and watching. I watched them all and listened to Rebecca words as they interacted. Rebecca told me to watch silently, to give off a brooding and intimidating appearance… I'm already sure that other Tributes from the non-career Districts are frightened of me. I had seen fear in their eyes when they met my eyes. I savoured that look in their eyes. I know I will be seeing that _look_ again so soon now…

Then, on Training Day two, I took note of Canicus slowly asking the other Careers to be in the Career pack, and once I was alone with him in the elevator, I only said, "Yes," because I knew he wanted me to be in the Career pack… When I got to my floor in the Training Centre, I just laughed quietly to myself.

The hovercraft drops me and Gregory off in the launches which are placed deep beneath the earth. Gregory leads me to my launch room, walking through maze-like corridors. Gradually, Gregory finds the right room and swings open the door, he holds it open for me to enter.

I enter through the room, my eyes sliding over the walls. The room is like a box with a dim light-bulb which cast off dark shadows, the walls are bare and white. It looks so…vast and empty. Like a place where animals are sent to before being slaughtered…

Except, _I_ won't be slaughtered… I'm the slaughterer.

"Now, let's see what is the arena outfit…" Gregory murmurs, he walks forward towards the metal table where the outfit is neatly folded on the surface. He unfolds them and studies them for a moment in complete silence.

I await for the outfit, suddenly curious in what I'll be wearing. Finally, Gregory turns around and holds out the clothes I'll be wearing. The outfit consists of cargo pants, a very thin, grey shirt and a heavy jacket with like a dozen of pockets. Silence breaks in as Gregory helps me into the clothing, his light fingers skimming over the materials. The outfit is completely made out of grey or dark fabric, which tells me that the arena must be…somehow dark…

"Are the arena outfits meant to be camouflaged?" I ask Gregory.

He flits his eyes up to mine and shrugs. "Sometimes. I don't know what the arena will be, so I have no idea. Anyway, here's your bandana and boots."

My eyes land onto the bandana and boots resting on Gregory's hands. I urge myself to just get this done with, so I grab them and pull on the grey bandana; the colour is the deep shade of the stormy clouds on a rainy day. Then I slip on the sturdy, thick soled boots, and after that I encircle a heavy belt around my waist.

"Ah," Gregory pipes up, smiling as he touches the area over my heart of the jacket, "look, it has your name and your District."

I glance down and immediately notice the bold sewing of 'Matthews, 2' over my heart area.

"_Oh, hurray. Now everybody can easily stab through that…"_ one of the voices retorts. I snort through my nostrils. Not like I need to worry…

He hands me a type of chain, pursing his lips. It says my name and district on it too. I slip it over my head, disregarding it.

"Now, let me see…" Gregory mumbles as his eyes roam over my clothing. "It has sturdy boots with rubber soles, good for running. The thin shirt tells us that you will perhaps expect hot days… That's all I can tell about this-"

"Is that all?" I interrupt rudely. He flicks me a hard scowl before stepping away. I flex my arms and shuffle my feet around with giddiness seeping into me. "How much longer?"

"I don't know," he quietly says.

"Well, aren't you going to say 'good luck'?" I snap aggressively. For some reason, I get the feeling that Gregory doesn't care about what would happen to me… Doesn't he want to see me return so he can design some more costumes?

"_He only wants you dead…"_ Rebecca tells me, loath lacing her voice. _"It's better if he is dead."_

My eyes instantly squint together as I study Gregory. It is apparent that he might not have heard Rebecca's words, or he probably have ignored her… Gregory meets my eyes and they are unreadable, blank.

_He wants me dead._

A paranoid feeling over-takes me, gushing through my bloodstreams. My eyes turn glassy and void and…empty. "Do you want me dead?" I snarl.

Gregory opens his mouth and slams them back together repeatedly like a fish gasping in the open air. He eventually forms his words, however they are coarse and thick. "No- of course n-not! Now just be quiet-"

"You do, don't you," I say, walking nearer to him. As the seconds tick by, Gregory's face transform into a look of sheer terror as I tower over him. My hand lash out and grip onto his stubby throat.

A reasonably pleasant voice booms out from above, announcing that it is time to prepare to launch… My face splits into a wolfish grin, teeth gleaming like sharp sharks' teeth exposed to clamp down onto a prey. Gregory tries to break free, but my grip is tight.

"_Make him frightened,"_ Rebecca laughs inside my head, the cackling sound bouncing around the skull walls. My smile widen at her words and I nod.

I hesitantly pull away, my fingers tracing Gregory's jaw before releasing him. "Just wait till I return and you should fear for your life…"

Gregory's bottom lip quivers like a leaf in a strong breeze. He gulps heavily, his Adam-apple bobbing up and down along his stubby throat. "W-why are y-you doing this?"

"Because I'm mad?" I laugh, and Rebecca's cackles fill up my head again. "Because I know you want to kill me."

"_What_?! Why would I want to kill you?" he whimpers.

"I just know you want to," I snap. I wave dismissively and stride away towards the launch pad. My face crinkles to grace the evil, toothy grin as I step into the glass tube. I spin around to come face-to-face with Gregory when the whistling sound of the glass sliding occurs. Gregory glares at me, his face only inches away from the glass, eyes filled with anticipation. A smile slowly creeps along his lips and he pulls his hand away from tweaking his bow-tie so he makes a wave.

He mouths, _goodbye, you idiot._ His words brings a gritted grimace onto my face. He called me an idiot. Well…he will pay later…

A round of rumbling erupts beneath my feet as the launch pad begins to slowly rise up… _Now, I'm going into the arena…_

Inside my head and ears, there are probably a dozen of voices chanting a song in low, husky voices. Usually I would scream and clutch my head between my hands because I hate their songs, but this time I relish their song and soak in the words as the pad rises up through the deep earth, towards the Cornucopia above the ground…

"_I don't know what I'm running from_

_And I don't know where I'm running to_

_Something's just compelling me to run into the dark."_

My lips part open and I begin to form the words of the song. Soon, I'm singing along with the voices.

"_And now I'm more driven than before_

_And now I live just to settle score_

_And now I feel the nearness of your breath_

_Now I introduce you to your death."_

The song abruptly ends once the ground above me open up and a bright beam of light hit my eyes. Forcing myself, I don't blink because I have to _see_. Laughter fills my head as the sunlight fades and my sight returns.

And the sight that beholds me forces out a surprised laugh from my lips… _Oh, this is going to be _so_ fun._


	41. No More Limits

**Sorry about the lack of updates. I've had some stuff IRL going on. Since Belles is basically...AFK with real life, that leaves me alone to update this. Now I know that it doesn't seem like much to update this when it's time, but it also means that I have to read 8-15,000 word chapters and revise them before I do. Plus I have to make sure they all mesh up with the other chapters.**

**Sorry about that, next update should be Tuesday. Enjoy the first look at the horror.**

**Wanna know what it looks like?**

** www . vissy . c o . uk / wp - conten t / uploads / 2011 / 0 7 / sucker _ punch . jpg**

**Copy and paste that in your browser after removing the spaces XD**

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**The Bloodbath Part I**

**Lucian Drake, District 12**

**By JGrayzz**

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_"When a man's an empty kettle he should be on his mettle,_

_And yet I'm torn apart._

_Just because I'm presumin' that I could be kind-a-human,_

_If I only had a heart._

_Just to register emotion, jealousy - devotion,_

_And really feel the part._

_I could stay young and chipper_

_and I'd lock it with a zipper,_

_If I only had a heart."_

-The Tin-Man's Song (Wizard of Oz, 1939)

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**JGrayzz's A/N: ****Hey everyone! I noticed I haven't said much to the readers since I've been writing, but I finally decided to pop in this time. Just wanted to say thanks for all the positive feedback about my character. I'm glad you all find him interesting. In case anyone was wondering what "Viddy" meant, as it is mentioned in Lucian's Capitol Chapter and this one a bit, it's my little homage to the cult classic "A Clockwork Orange". In the fictional language of Nadsat, it basically means "To see, or discern". Anyway, enough of me, it's time to get on with the show. Enjoy...and without further ado, THE ARENA!**

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I cannot hope to describe the feelings that coarse through my body as I enter into the launch tube. Never before have I felt a surge of adrenaline and anxiety so powerful in my entire life. This has never occurred back at home; not when I set those fires, not when I committed thievery in the descending darkness of the night, and not when I dared myself to go out into the forest despite the fear I have of it.

It's like that feeling before you compete in an athletics tournament; it's a complete rush. It's the feeling of knowing you're going to go out there and show the world what you've got; it's the ultimate impression. It's that certain feeling of knowing you've got one chance to do something, and to do it right. It's that little tingling sensation that runs down your spine when you realize you're being watched, but you not dare turn around.

It's a twisting, gut wrenching, heart paining moment. It's this very moment...the moment where tributes come to their wits end trying to piece together their strategies. They try to tell themselves they can make it, and proceed to list off a ridiculous amount of nothings in their heads. They pray, and they may even cry. Some even pound on the glass, wanting to end the seemingly endless wave of suffocation that clogs their senses and clouds their minds. They wish to break free from their innocent little prisons that they've made of themselves. They wish to crack the surface, to hang on to that thread of hope that their mothers and fathers gave them before they were herded onto the train like a bunch of cattle. They told their parents they loved them...what more can they want?

They seek some form of redemption...a saving grace to fall from the sky and miraculously extricate them from the myriad of dilemmas that's facing them. They ask themselves what they've done to deserve this horror. They berate themselves, then seek to pity themselves. It's a cycle of pathetic, attention seeking dabble that they use to make others notice their supposed anxiety and innocence. These children have spent their entire life walking around in a cloud of denial. When they come to this launch tube, they seek a way out.

_And I don't feel any of it._

It's a strange feeling knowing everything that has transpired in the past week will be completely irrelevant in the days to come. Everything that I have done to get here, though, was a different adventure completely. But it's an adventure that has come to an end. Lucian Drake's reign of terror within the expanse of District 12 has ended.

A new reign of terror will begin. And that reign of terror will be the likes of something the Games has or hasn't seen before. I probably won't be able to beat my uncle's record of 11 kills; he was basically a Career in the wrong district with a bunch of prepubescent children to fight against. His destruction is unforgettable, but it's only a number. I've read his accounts in my journal, and I'm disappointed. It's obvious he felt something for the children he murdered. In the end, he'd become the monster the Capitol had wanted him to become. He became numbed to the feeling of death, of course. It was a learned behavior, as a result of the Game's influences. Essentially, my uncle never wished to harm anyone, but perhaps he killed so many because he knew nobody else had the heart to do it.

Unfortunately, I'm already a monster. I've said it, I've heard it, and I've been told it firsthand. There's nothing more for me to accomplish; I can only embrace the path I've been given. I've taken it for a reason, of course. I knew when I committed my crimes what I was getting into; but now that I'm here…was it really worth it?

_I do not know this answer. Only time will tell._

My thoughts are silenced at the closing of the launch tube's glass door, and all sounds from the outside world are drowned out. I breathe in deeply and lean my head against the glass, staring at the blank faced Capitolite attendant who escorted me to the launch room. I viddy him, causing him to hesitate as he takes a seat near the control panel.

I knock on the glass.

The Capitolite flinches at the sound, but ignores my tapping, whisking it off as typical tribute protest.

I tap again, this time plastering a pained look on my face, pointing to my shin in mock injury.

The balding man presses a button on the panel, and his bored drawl sounds through a speaker in the side, "Is something wrong?"

I roll my eyes at this poor man's ignorance, "No, I am perfect in every possible way. That is beside the point. I—"

"—Look, kid. If you're injured, you gotta tell me now. Otherwise, I'm not authorized to interact with—"

"—Sponsor me," I say without hesitation.

"...What?" The man's scratchy voice through the speaker sounds almost perplexed.

"This is not times for your petty games. I've already got games to play. My words were clear; sponsor me."

The man cuts off the speaker and looks at me through the tube, eyes squinted behind the thick glasses in inquiry.

I send him a questioning nod.

He adjusts his glasses and swivels back around toward the control panel and activates the speaker system, "Just between you and me, I've already got my bet on the Careers."

I rub my chin in musing, "The Careers will be dead before the week is done. You would be a fool to put your money on them."

The man hesitates again before he speaks, "How...can you be so sure?"

I shrug, "Perhaps there are some who wish to spill their blood early, although I can't say I'm one of them. Lend me a sword and things will be finished quick...never messy. Besides, what have you got to lose? So will you sponsor me or not?"

The man gasps, adjusting his glasses nervously, "I'll uh...have to think about it."

I lean against the tube, satisfied with my supposed victory.

_This is just in case my lovely Khopesh never shows._

There has never been a victor hailing from District 12. There have been close calls in the past, but never any victors. So I didn't have any coaching to be done here. That's fine with me, however. I've done all the training I ever needed at home. And also, I have my uncle's journal, which has now become mine.

I reach my hand inside my jacket and feel the journal resting in the inside pocket. I pat it a few times and smile as I look towards the future of the Drake journal.

_Soon, it will be filled once more. The legacy will be continued, and all accounts of the Quarter Quell will be documented within._

I look down at my arena outfit and can only assume that the terrain above me will be rough. I'm decked out in dark green military style cargo pants with several pockets, a black shirt, steel-toe black boots, leather gloves, and a military jacket which I leave unzipped.

Around my neck are dog-tags, featuring my name, District, and age. I fiddle with the steel tags and notice the second tag having a small black hole within the center.

_A camera? Well this is interesting._

Apparently, the Capitol decided that viewers would prefer front row seats this time around. I roll my eyes as I wait for the platform to rise. I barely notice that I'm shaking, but that means nothing to me anymore. I've already promised myself that I would no longer have to resist the desires that have been welling up in my chest ever since I was a young child.

_I wonder how that's going to look on screen._

All this anxiousness has gotten me in a strange state of mind, and I realize that not all of my shaking is being caused by my sickness. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm shaking out of pure excitement now; which doesn't help in calming me by the way.

I do a mental breakdown of my competition, because it's the only thing I can do at the present time. The Careers? Obviously, I need to avoid them. I'd be stupid to confront them when they're in their lion pride. I don't want to confront either Jet or Canicus. First, because Canicus would probably tear me apart with his expertise in combat. And second, because Jet is kind of a weirdo. And what do weirdos do to unsuspecting victims? Well?

The hell if I know. I am simply trying to stall time. If I really cared about anyone else I'd be giving my opponents nicknames and reciting poems in their honor. But...I digress. I'm a weirdo in that respect. So I'm a hypocrite. I have hypocritilitus...does such a thing exist?

I'm growing increasingly impatient and I've been standing in the launch room within the damn tube for a good several minutes-longer than is necessary. I tap on the glass and motion for the Capitolite. He presses a button on a panel in the room and a speaker sounds through the top of the tube.

The muffled voice of the Capitol escort sounds through the launch chamber, "Yes, yes, I realize you've been waiting for some time now. It appears as though there's been some difficulties with a few launch pads. You're not the only one…We should be getting things running soon, though. Just sit tight."

_Don't tell me that everyone else's pad has been raised already. That would be quite embarrassing, especially when I'm from 12._

I sigh and fix my gloves, trying to keep myself steady and composed enough as to not break the glass and start my own little Games right now. The urges are paining me, but I manage to distract myself by closing my eyes and taking long, deep breaths.

I try to focus, and might I tell you that such a calming technique as breathing is very difficult in a situation like this. I still cannot fathom that within the next several minutes, I could die. It's surreal, in fact. It's surreal to know that I have the chance to control death…everything that the power of the Capitol wields will be at my fingertips. For once in my life, I have the comfort of knowing that all of my behavior will be allowed.

No longer will I be scorned for doing the things I've imagined and dreamed about. No longer will I be sent off to some hospital because of some supposed "loose wiring" in my mental faculties. For once in my life, I will have no limits. And several years ago, as a young boy, I would have never imagined a place where _death_ was allowed and even _encouraged._ I would have never imagined that my "sickness" could be put to good use.

_I suppose being a monster has its benefits._

And to think, all of this violence and gore will be documented and televised live for the entire nation to see. See, that's the thing I'll never be able to understand. The Capitol goes through all this trouble of setting up a death lottery and picking random children and prettying them up, and making people love them, all for the sake of glorifying their demise in an act of unceremonious and a sometimes horribly vile version of reality television gone awry.

It's every sadist's dream. But let me ask you this, Capitol. If you hold dear to your hearts the Games so much so, and feel enlightenment and honor because of it, then why do you not place yourselves in the Games as well? You seem to hold such high views of it, and you seem to promote it and glorify it as if it were a set of holy scriptures…it makes me wonder the true intelligence of this nation's superiors. And it also leads me to the question of why the Capitol does not just kill off these children themselves at once.

_Perhaps I'll never learn the answers. I'm only here to put on a show, right?_

If it's a show the Capitol wants, then so be it. This was never for them though. This choice was mine. Am I sick for choosing to participate in such volatile self-torture? Would I truly live up to the namesake of monster? Should I just admit that I'm a maniac and be done with it? Should I just drop my façade and act like the kind-hearted and empathic boy I've been known to be?

_Never._

I let a smile slip across my face. I don't regret a single thing I'm doing. I've worked many hours and suffered many nights to get here and I'm not going to waste this opportunity. Whether or not my family or Cyrus thinks I'm a sadistic freak, I don't really care. Pity isn't something I've ever felt, and I'm certainly not going to debut it for viewing pleasure.

In the quietness of the launch chamber, it's impossible to hear anything that's going on outside of it. The launch room is made of hard concrete, and I have no idea how deep underground it is. The Capitolite attendant who escorted me here is now conversing with someone else, their gazes constantly flickering back towards me within the launch chamber.

_They must be discussing the "difficulties" that's going on with the launcher. If this nonsense continues any longer then the Games will have to be delayed._

While the Capitolites are fiddling with the command console, I take a moment to relish in the silence before the storm. Within minutes, chaos will ensue. I've been thinking far too long and if I don't try to adjust with the atmosphere I'll start shaking even more. I look up at the black tunnel above the launch pad.

_How deep am I?_

From within the silence of the chamber, I try to discern any sounds that may be traveling down the abysmal tunnel. I put my ear against the far glass wall of the launch pad chamber and listen for any leakage of sound.

I do hear something. It's…muffled, yes, but it almost sounds like a rapid succession of _booms._ I can't be for sure. It sounds like thunder. Thunder or cannons. I can't hear anything else, but the longer I have my ear on the glass the longer I feel the slightest sense of vibration. It's almost unnoticeable…but whatever is up there, it's loud and powerful enough that it's affecting the glass perhaps several thousand feet down.

_What the hell am I getting into?_

I don't have time to contemplate any further as I realize that the pod has finally began raising. I quickly take my ear off the side and stand straight, making sure to get a good look at the hell I'm going to be competing in.

_Well, here we go. This is what I wanted…Right?_

_Right._

I clutch the journal to make sure it's still there and tap it again, before clenching my fists together and cracking them. I stretch my neck and arms as the launch pad continues to elevate, the sound of thunder becoming louder and louder every second. Darkness still surrounds the chamber as the platform raises but it isn't long before small streams of light can be seen reflecting off the glass.

In a matter of seconds the glass chamber stops and the roof opens up. The thunder is now louder than ever, and I wouldn't doubt if it was enhanced to seem louder. But it isn't just that, there's also continuous amounts of booms also accompanying the ridiculously loud thunder not to mention a torrential downpour of rain that's already wetting my hair from inside the chamber hole.

The platform beneath my feet is rising ever so slowly to the top and as it raises I'm getting an inch by inch glimpse of the scene before me. There's a multitude of noise all around me and at first it actually makes my ears pop.

Within seconds my platform is now set in place, and while I'm relieved that everyone else's platform is also raising in similar fashion, I'm shockingly unprepared for the scene before me.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

A literal war zone stretches as far as the eye can see. Miles and miles of pure battlefield accompanied by the sound of what I believe to be gunfire and cannon shots.

In the field before me, smoke stems up from several spots and a wide array of random and very loud explosions can be seen in the distance. The sky is hazy and muggy, and clogged up with large amounts of excess smoke, similar in appearance to a smoggy District 12.

My surprise is startled by a very loud and sudden roar of an engine sweeping at high speed above my head. I flinch as I look to the sky at the noise and see dozens of war-planes flying and spinning at top speed. The planes seem to be dropping bombs with small parachutes attached to them, slowly falling to the field and exploding in the distance in a spectacular and fiery show.

With the few tributes I can see, many of them are equally as surprised as I as they stand on their plates, and many seem to actually appear frightened as planes swoop dangerously low to their heads.

Along with the pounding rain and never-ending series of explosions in the incredibly large battlefield, almost the entire field appears to be made up of walkways; paths of dirt and debris separated by neatly packed sandbags all around and stretching in front of me.

With what little experiences I have with war, I can only assume they can be trenches. Many of the trenches differ in height and space, and there are some that even sink in lower to the ground, while others are so tight fitting that I don't even know if they are meant to be traversed. Barbed wire lines the tops of the trenches, which would prevent anyone from trying to climb the sandbag walls and hopping from pathway to pathway.

_It's almost like a maze, but then again, these trenches may serve as protection against all the bombs and potential gunfire._

I also notice dozens of towers which loom in the distance and to the sides of the field; I'm not sure what they're for or if anyone is in them, but they have windows, and I think I can almost see some sort of turret or gun sticking out of them.

_Guard towers? The Capitol is going to try to shoot the tributes? This is madness._

Besides the possibly hundreds of narrow trenches and low pathways in this war inspired arena, there also appears to be a couple larger paths that lead directly into the bomb and explosion filled field.

_Taking those larger paths would be suicide. The trenches, although narrow, would increase the possibility of an encounter with a tribute, but it would make the risk of environmental death lower. Either way, it's a lose-lose situation, and for all I know they could all lead to the same area. This entire arena could be made up of trenches and mine fields for all I know._

My wary gaze flickers further into the battlefield, and it appears there are downed planes and hundreds of wreckage piles and debris lining this place. I think I even see armored tanks out there. They don't look to be working…but I'm not going to risk taking those larger paths into that explosion filled field.

I take a moment to look behind me while on the plate, and I notice that the scenery is incredibly different than in the front. A much less clogged and trench-filled field expands for some distance. The entire field is basically all mud with barbed wire and some flashing lights serving as…warning lights?

_I don't trust it…Could be some sort of mine field._

Beyond the mostly empty but muddy and possibly mine filled field is a towering expanse of trees, stretching miles and miles to each side. It's far away from the battlefield, but it looks to be even more dark and dangerous. To even get to the trees the large mud field must be trekked but even then, I wouldn't even trust it. I don't like forests.

I turn around and stare at the hellish war zone in front of me, trying to clear my head of complexities and decisions. Because I hadn't taken into account the unpredictability of the Arena, my plans from earlier are largely affected. Not only will I have to locate potential others through narrow and maze-like trenches, but I will now have to avoid the hundreds of environmental dangers of this arena.

_So this is the Quell the Capitol had in store for us? This is nothing like how I imagined it._

I'm trying incredibly hard to wrap my head around all the potential factors and dangers that can be involved in any of my plans. So far, every plan that I had perfected during training will just not work. Even "Plan X" will have to wait.

I can't even see the Cornucopia, and wherever it is, it's probably right in the middle of all the action…most likely in the open wasteland of explosions and metal carcasses past all of the trenches to the north. I also can't get a decent glimpse of many tributes. Usually, the tributes are placed in a huge circle surrounding the Cornucopia, but this time, it looks like everyone is spread out randomly around the trenches. There seems to be a lack of reasoning to the placements. If anything, the tributes might be stationed near a path of trenches like myself, but I'm not sure if the Capitol is going for the "Maze" thing again.

_Even with my height I can't look past the tops of any trenches; but I'm sure past this sandbagged wall there must be many more waiting._

I do see a couple tributes that aren't so hidden; to my left a few yards away is Admire Blanchard herself. Her launch pad is stationed between some wooden barrels and other debris, but she's farther from me and may not even see me from her angle. She appears to be clutching her stomach, as if in some sort of nervous pain, and she's tapping her foot ever so slightly. Her face is stoic and sour, and her lips are fashioned in what appears to be a confident smirk, but her eyes are wandering just as quickly as mine.

_She's as pale as a ghost…and here I thought she would be a problem._

Closer to my left, however, barely 50 or so feet away is Bastian from District 5. He can easily get a glimpse of both Admire and myself to either side. He's a bit shorter than myself, and although he towers over Admire he doesn't seem to care about looking at any other tribute. He doesn't even know I'm looking at him. He seems…very troubled. It's obvious he's terrified, and his hands are clenched and at his sides pounding his legs at a pace I can't even follow.

_Someone should put this fellow out of his misery; he looks terribly ill. Hell, everyone here looks sickly. Everything is completely different than from what I've seen on television. I wouldn't doubt if the Capitol enhances the coloring of the screen to make the tributes look healthier._

Almost the same distance away to my right, is a girl who I do not recognize. The noise seems to be getting to her, as she's shutting her eyes and muttering words to herself. And again, she has the same pale complexion as everyone else I had seen so far.

Those are the only tributes I'm able to see, and the other 20 must be intricately hidden past the towering trenches and strewn about debris. While I might have been able to spot a few more heads, I cannot know for certain. Everything in this arena is so chaotic that I might as well just consider the rocks and barrels themselves threats instead of the actual tributes.

As soon as this thought passes, the rain and noise echoing through the entire arena seems to freeze and completely still in seconds. Literally, I can soon hear my own heartbeat.

_Has the countdown begun?_

All of the sudden, an extremely loud and deep horn resonates through the sky, and the vibration is so powerful that the very rocks and dust around me are strewn about. The sound is deep, but it disturbs me and actually manages to send chills down my spine.

Then, a flicker of muffled sound and a screech similar to that of a microphone is heard before the muffling begins again, indicating that either the countdown or a speech is about to be heard. The voice that is heard is not one I would have expected to hear.

It's the Head Gamemaker herself. It's Snow, and in all my life I have never heard a voice so magnetic, so confident…yet so interestingly cold. I've never been scared of anyone; and only few have ever sent chills down my spine. First, that...strange girl back at home. Second, Gamemaker Snow.

Oh, and third, Clown-face Karina.

"_Tributes, tributes…listen well to what I say to you now, because there is much that needs to be heard…but so little time for your ears to hear it._"

I inwardly shiver and cringe at the voice. It's as if her very vocal chords were made to inflict torture on your soul. I can't explain it.

"_In the previous Games, a vile act of defiance and rebelliousness was directed toward the nation's leaders, The Capitol. It was an act of audacity and provocation of such an unpredictable nature that it even managed to slip past the censors and make its way into the homes of the Districts. This single act of rebellious bravado, was conceived by a single tribute such as yourselves._"

Yes…I remember it now, it was…Moss. Moss Dorian of District 4. He sparked a few small rebellions in the outlying districts. One man even managed to bomb and shoot up an embassy within the Capitol, the biggest and most significant hate crime against the government since the Dark Days. There were even a few strikes and small rebellions back at home. They were miniscule, but they were significant enough that all provision deliveries and trades with 12 were stalled by the Capitol for nearly a month. It's no surprise that the Capitol wanted some sort of revenge.

_"That tribute's little act of defiance sparked a rebellion against the great Capitol…and for the first time in decades…the Capitol was embarrassed. The Capitol will not be embarrassed. The Capitol will never be embarrassed."_

Why of course not, just take a look at District 13. It was wiped from existence.

_"And so we cut short any hopes of rebellion. We blew out the flame before it spread."_

_"We punished the Districts. We cut short their food production and we lowered their wages. We publicly executed any suspected rebel from each District, and we removed all trade of any medicine to the District hospitals for a full year. We quarantined outlying Districts and we set stricter borders for the land. But…that was clearly not enough."_

A low chuckle followed, but it might as well have been growling; it was cold and devoid of any detectable emotion.

_"You have not learned from your mistakes, tributes. This was evident when your Districts even attempted to retaliate against the might of the Capitol. And so… the Quell was born. And because you rebels have not learned, every 25 years for the rest of the Game's existence a special Quell will occur. It is a Games with a twist, but it is also a time where an important lesson can be learned."_

_"The Quell is just a little reminder that nothing shall be, or will ever be, larger and more powerful than the Capitol. Perhaps the rebels haven't been punished enough. And perhaps, this year, you tributes will learn your place. And now, you will see what it is truly like, to do battle with the Capitol."_

_"For punishment, the Districts were forced to choose amongst themselves. No citizen was innocent and all of thy children were eligible for slaughter. And quite a unique bunch we have this year!"_

_"But, your punishment only begins there. Look around, tributes! Do you see the guard towers that stand high above the battlefield? They are not vacant, and in fact, fellow citizens hailing from each District will be given a chance to strike each and every one of you down. Each tower contains someone from home just dying to blast any of you to smithereens. Perhaps, even a grudge or two can be settled, hm?"_

_"Tributes, if you wish to rebel, then here is your chance. You've been given an opportunity of a lifetime. In the end, you will realize that overcoming the might of the Capitol is no easy task."_

Well, this is interesting. But, I find some sort of pleasure in all of this. I can't identify with any of the misery or anger the Capitol has against the Districts, and truthfully, I could not really care less. All I really care about, is satisfying the never-ending pounding surge of sickening fantasies just waiting to burst through my chest. I understand these punishments, and I do understand why I'm here.

And that is because I wanted to be.

_"And so, that brings us to the moment you have all been waiting for. And that, tributes, is the chance of conquest, and the chance to make the Capitol and your Districts, proud."_

Oh, wonderful…

_"And, on one final note, I give you only this: There is a special surprise in store for you all at the Cornucopia."_

I do not understand this statement, but in the manner of which she stated this, I find myself mistrusting her tone. I do not believe anyone would trust her tone. This woman is pure evil.

There is a long pause and lull in the loud speaker throughout the arena, and the sound of pouring rain and thunder begins once more. It's getting louder and louder every moment. Then, the explosions begin again. The planes start zooming in the air, and everything is just as chaotic and audible as it was when I had been raised up. Fires begin blazing with more might in the distance, and the flashing orange lights of the many guard towers catch my eye immediately. Long and wicked looking rifles stick out the windows and I can see smiling men and women, some of whom I may even know from back home, awaiting to send a round through our skulls.

The sky gets darker and the rain pours down so hard that many in ground trenches are getting filled to the brim with rain water, making them impossible to traverse without knowing how to swim. The beating of my heart is now in synch with the throbbing of my head, and I realize that my condition must be entering its later stages. Other than that single moment in my Capitol room, my sickness has never been this bad.

The only difference is that as I'm standing on my plate, just waiting for the signal for the Games to begin, I'm relishing in the adrenaline and lust and sickening thoughts coming to my head. I no longer have any thing to hide, but I'm still subdued. I can't let anyone think I'm weak, and I can't let anyone know that I have some sort of monstrous condition…which I probably don't have anyway. In the heat of the moment, things can get wild. I am perfect. I just need my Khopesh, and I just need to calm myself down.

I'm intelligent and confident enough in myself that I can avoid the environmental hazards if I'm just careful. I'm tall, just an inch below six feet, and I've trained at home with the weapons I had. I know how to do this…I've read my uncle's passages, and I've studied everyone. The Careers can be avoided, the Rats are nothing of my concern, and the Serpents must be observed from a distance, but to be avoided at all costs. I will do everything in my power to eliminate the others who don't fit in these categories. And then…Plan X will be initiated.

I glance at Admire and Bastian, both of whom are eyeing the scenery carefully but with evident sickly expressions still etched in their faces. I also take the time to notice that all of the tributes that I can see are wearing similar outfits to that of mine. Cargo pants, heavy military jackets; some zipped, others not. Bastian is even outfitted with a black cap. And every tribute has dog-tags around their necks. I notice that the second dog-tag containing the camera has a symbol etched into the steel. Each symbol appears to be unique to the Districts.

The girl to my right is eyeing me with worry, and I stare back at her, viddying her carefully. She is below me in height and she realizes this, and she's seen me with the Careers…but with me hailing from District 12, does she suspect me a Career? I'm not certain, but she's fearful, and she's shaking her head at me. I do not understand this motion, but in the manner she's looking at me…_what does this girl require of me__? Does she want me to kill her?_

_Now...why would I ever do such a thing?_

I quickly look away and try to piece together these thoughts…but it's awfully difficult when my entire mind is being clouded with visions of…events to come.

I clench my teeth at the sound of more planes zooming past in the air and conclude that it's a ruse to distract everyone. The planes, although dangerous, are only here to deploy explosions. I do not see some sort of suicide bomber tactic happening in the future.

I incline my head to my left and see the focused and mischievous eyes of Admire Blanchard staring directly at me. I hold her stare and try to place her emotions. I cannot. She is smiling at me, for whatever reason. But her smile is cold and distant, and the crookedness of it is nothing short of callous. Her cyan eyes appear to be red and lined with stress lines, unaltered by the usual makeup she disguises herself with. She does look more deadly, but I don't actually see any of it.

Bastian gives a slight turn of the head towards the Career to his left as well and I see a gulp attempting to run down his throat. He nervously but hastily brings his head towards the right and eyes me and the girl to my right as well. He gives a very audible puff of air, almost trying to stop himself from toppling down unconscious. My eyes remain on Blanchard, unsure of her motives. She has since directed her attention to her stomach.

It's raining, but the air is so tense that even the pouring water doesn't distract from the moments to come. My entire body and mind is racing and I cannot explain to you the feelings that this is bringing out in me. I feel exhilarated, but I also feel natural. It's taking me much effort to keep myself from jumping up and down on my plate. The odd thing is, I don't feel fear. Everything is absent, as I'm too caught up in the moment. I feel nothing but content.

And then, I begin to count.

_10..._

Which path to take?

_9..._

The one less taken?

_8..._

Or the one that grants me power?

_7..._

Does it truly matter?

_6..._

It could lead to my demise...

_5..._

Is death what I desire?

_4..._

Should I kill?

_3..._

But what if they do not wish to die...What if they wish to live...Move on...Start a family.

Then again...

_2..._

Only in death—

_1..._

—are we all equal.

In that instant my thoughts are silenced completely by the much louder and more powerful echo of the speakers. It's the Head Gamemaker once more…and she's doing what she does best. Ever so charismatic, and ever so devilish.

_"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games and the first Quarter Quell…BEGIN!"_

The speaker cuts and the boom of the gong signals the beginning.

And then all hell freezes over.

I slowly raise my head as the intensity of the explosions and smoke and gunshots smack me right in the face. The sounds, having never previously been this loud before, are so vibrant that I have a hard time remembering where I am. I'm having a difficult time even stepping off the plate. Even Bastian and the faceless girl nearest to me are confusedly trying to keep their feet as they try to figure out where the hell to go.

A ringing pierces my ear drums; it is so unbelievably loud that I become near paralyzed.

_As long as I stay on this damn plate, the sounds will only intensify. Lucian, go!_

_NOW!_

I smack myself in the cheek and step off the plate, the sounds now not nearly as intense as moments before. The other tributes have already left their plates, and I can already hear the shouting and screaming of several of them within the sandbagged catacombs of the trenches.

I hastily walk for the larger trench pathway in front of me and locate any source of tribute noise amongst the dozens of other very loud noises. Pangs of gunshots are also heard as the Guard Tower shooters aim for the trenches and debris, firing seemingly at random and hoping to set off any underground mines or trigger any explosive traps.

My venture into the complex pathway of trenches and barbed wire tipped fences are less than elegant, and I have to side step various jagged rocks and fence posts that are sticking dangerously out of the ground. I almost think I've already gotten lost but am somewhat comforted in the fact that I can hear a very large assortment of voices, one of whom belongs to a very angry Canicus Macaulay, who already appears to be yelling viciously at someone.

_I'm much too close for my own good. Who knows, the Careers could have already banded together with swords and the such._

Then I hear a muffled shout, "Where in the hell are the weapons?!"

_Nevermind._

I quickly try to relocate from my current area in the trenches. I take a few random lefts and rights, occasionally coming across dead ends, but nonetheless moving rapidly away from potential dangers. My biggest concern at the moment is whether or not the Game-makers have decided to place mines within the trenches. If so, then I will have to be extremely careful.

At one point I come across a barrel with a blinking light, and I decide to chuck a piece of debris at it from a distance, causing it to burst in a small but fiery explosion.

_That very well could have killed me. I'm surprised nobody has been killed yet._

My focus is unmatched as I quickly measure up possible dangers within each trench pathway and jump over debris in the war field, desperately craving some sort of encounter with anyone at all. All of my adrenaline is pumping as I run through a large wooden gate separating one set of trenches from the other.

As soon as I blindly push the gate, another shorter tribute with glasses who I recognize as Bren stumbles into me and falls to his side, and looks at me with vivid surprise.

"Oh, shit", he curses under his breath and hastily climbs to his feet as he turns left into another trench. I chuckle and trail him, relishing in the animalistic pleasure that's coursing through my veins.

I realize I should not be feeling this way, but now that I've found somebody, what's to lose? I'm interested in his choice of movement. And honestly…I'm bored. Does that make any sense? I'm bored in the Hunger Games…What the hell is this world coming to?

I smack myself again and focus on Bren's rapid pace. He's running like a wild goose, and I don't even think he knows where he's going. But I can't really blame him. Coupled with all the rain, explosions, and constant gunfire, I'd much rather get lost in the possibly thousands of trenches than charge into the open battlefield with all the Guard Towers, mines, and bomber planes. Personally, I think Bren's just trying to get as lost as possible.

As I'm running, I notice that Bren is taking me within an area of the trenches that could be considered more "popular". There are other trench openings and pathways that I can see in my peripheral vision, and it's popular in the case that I've seen other tributes blindly running through this current maze of trenches such as Bren and I are.

_Bren knows where all the action is...I should follow him the entire time._

I have not seen Galla, which is to be expected. Galla is not my prey in this hunt, and she never was. Galla…wherever she is, has fulfilled my promise. She has avoided me. I can only hope that she will do this until my end.

I have, however, seen a Career or two. In fact, just a few seconds ago, Sade almost ran into me in the same manner Bren had, but she ignored our presence and quickly made way for the opposite direction. She hadn't seemed to be with anyone else, and I was unsure why someone as confident and headstrong as Sade would be running like a headless chicken through the trenches.

_Has anyone died? What kind of Blood-bath is this? I think the Capitol may have went overboard with their Quell arena. This is worse than a chess game. They might have to release the mutts early this year._

Bren is still running around like a maniac, cursing very loudly might I add. I'm attempting to stifle my chuckles so he doesn't hear me, but I almost trip over a piece of jutting out fence and somehow, even amongst all the chaos, he hears me.

Bren looks like a deer in the headlights as he realizes that I've been following him all this time. "Oh come on, man!"

I send a smirk his way and he mutters something to himself before taking a left into the next series of trenches. I quickly chase after him, but am surprised to quickly find out that I've lost him.

_What? He was just going this way…He can't be that fast._

I take a random series of right and left turns trying to find Bren, and primarily let my intuition do the thinking. I step up my pace and shed all worries of possible mines or ground traps and just haul ass from then on. I don't even have a particular direction I'm heading, now everything is just a blur in the desperate and sickening desire to hurt someone. I don't know what's going on with my head, but it's not so much as loud anymore as it is annoyingly chaotic. All these random bursts of death, decay, blood, and gore come rushing into my vision, and flashes of red tinge my entire eye field.

_This cannot be happening…I need to be determined! Not look like a homicidal maniac!_

Then, the sounds of a nearby scuffle catches my ear amongst all the explosions and planes flying around in the distance. It sounds like it's coming from behind the wall of sandbags to my right…most likely the opposite trench.

I throw myself against the wall and listen tentatively for the grunts and curses behind it. I close my eyes and breathe, preparing myself for the worst when I emerge into the pathway. Rain is pouring down harder than ever, and the mud and dirt in every trench path is becoming extremely slippery. If I screw up, I'm dead.

_I don't know who's behind this wall, but nobody seems to be dead yet, so they must be still fighting. I haven't seen any weapons at all; I don't even know where the Cornucopia is._

I run my hand through my hair and hope for the best as I run out and turn right into the path next door. I give an inward sigh of relief as I see Bren and…Jonas? Jonas appears to have tackled Bren into the wall. As I'm silently watching the fight, Jonas takes hold of one of Bren's flailing arms and twists the arm to subdue him. Jonas grunts in an attempt to keep him in his grasp as he shoves Bren, shoulder first, into a downed fence with barbed wire sprouting out of it.

The barbed wire cuts into Bren near his shoulder but it doesn't stick all the way through, and appears to have badly cut him instead. Jonas, from what I can see, has dozens of scratch marks and even a bit of a bruise on his face from Bren's vicious assault. Jonas sees me approaching and his eyes widen just a tad. He licks his lips and runs down the trench. I chase after him, and Jonas seems to have found the lower in-ground trench area, because he's leading me straight to it.

_Jonas has a plan already. Smart guy. He's going to try to trap me._

Jonas glances at me and grunts as he tries to confuse me by running wildly and jumping across entire trenches. I don't take the chance of jumping like he does, but I only jog. I shout at Jonas as he practically runs in circles , jumping around various trenches and debris in rapid pace with relative ease.

"I believe you're running in circles, Emerson!" I sneer at him.

Jonas turns to scowl at me, but in his doing so, jumps a bit too late and his foot catches on the ledge of the trench. His hand bends awkwardly and his pinky finger twists in a strange manner as he fails to save himself, sending him careening into the puddle filled trench butt-first.

I hear a yelp of pain and walk over to take a peek. Jonas is rubbing his tail bone and leaning back against the dirt wall. Jonas has bloody scrapes on his hands, and he's clutching his pinky finger which now looks a deep hue of blue.

Jonas shouts up at me from below, "Alright, so I don't play leap frog much! You going to kill me now?"

Jonas winces in pain as I stare at him long and hard. A long scratch extends across his cheek and his lip is bleeding profusely, most likely from biting into it.

_This guy is a mess._

I could end him, and the urges are literally tickling my very nerves; I almost want to jump down there and finish the job. It wouldn't take long either. I frown and kneel down, trying to make myself seem smaller so the planes or Guard Tower shooters won't see me.

I shake my head at him, "Not today, Emerson," and I turn on my heel quickly and head back towards familiar territory.

I run back into Bren's area, picking up the sounds of screams or yells in the distance. I can't really see above the higher trenches, so anything that happens outside of any pathway I'm in is unknown. It's a terrifying thought, but I have to trust my Drake instincts on this one. I can't rest to pull out my journal either, it's raining too hard. I'm beginning to crave water or a thirst-quenching drink of some sort, but I'm used to being hungry, and such feelings are not of a priority at the moment. Soon, however, provisions will have to be located. This is the _Hunger_ Games after all.

In my wave of thoughts, I turn a muddy corner too quickly and I fall on one knee. Such an injury would not be wise in moments like this. I try to get up quickly but I stop all attempts of this as I hear the heavy breathing of a male tribute in the opposite path.

_This isn't how I expected my life to end._

I quickly glance around the vicinity in hopes of cover. Luckily, there are a denizen of barrels stashed in a corner. I'm able to hear the tribute as I duck behind the debris; heavy feet crash down on pieces of wood and I can tell this is a taller tribute. The seating is uncomfortable and I can only get a glimpse of the large male as he calmly but warily searches the area around him.

_Eric Fiske..._

Oddly enough, a brighter light shines through the pounding wall of rain. It's a deep orange or red, and it's like a lantern through the darkness. I take a peek through a crack in the barrel and I see Eric holding a torch of some sort... Or a flare.

_How did he get his hands on a flare? Crafty, I must say._

Eric rummages through a pile of debris in his path and I hear the sounds of heavy boots crashing against wood. Heavy breathing and grunts follow and Eric emerges into my view again. His towering form of well over 6 feet makes him one of, if not the tallest tribute in this year's Games, surpassing even Canicus. This large height advantage makes him very intimidating, even from my hiding place. Eric is now slowly but heavily walking through the wall of rain into the North, where I had just been. He's dragging a long and heavy piece of sharpened wood on the ground with one hand and holding a bright torch in the other.

His footfalls and tiny light fade in the distance and I emerge from behind the debris. I cautiously look for any more visitors before running in the direction Eric had come from. I don't run long before I encounter more sounds of battle in the expanse of trenches. I quickly attempt to locate the source amongst all the rain and blaring noises. It sounds like females fighting. Now, if it's a female, this is where I'm concerned. If I'm not careful, I could encounter my notorious enemy, Admire, or Alexis, who I do not want to encounter yet. I might even come across Galla, and if this happens, I have to run away…and quickly.

I turn a corner, and shove past some barrels and come across a shouting match involving a very disgruntled Anya Powers. A taller and more athletic looking blonde girl, who I assume to be Roulla, is also calmly but sternly trying to reason with an irate Anya.

"Look, here, Ms. Powers. I cannot hope to find any trace of Careers in the vicinity. I cannot even find Con. Tell me, how exactly do you expect me to be setting you up if I have no idea where the hell anyone is?"

Anya is clutching her arm, and a long scratch appears to have torn through her jacket and seeped through into her skin. Roulla is also clutching her neck, and appears to have been cut as well.

Anya gives Roulla a cautious look, "Alright, whatever. Just…'whatevs. I don't need you, and I sure as hell don't need you tagging along trying to kill me!"

Roulla throws her hands up in exasperation, "Kill you—Anya I don't even have a weapon!" Roulla holds a fist up, "You think this—my bare fist can kill you?"

Anya fidgets, walking back and forth as she massages her wounded shoulder, "That's a trick question! I've seen your score, and it was most definitely above the numerical range of 1000—"

"—I received a 10, Ms. Powers—"

"—Above 1000! Don't be spreading those lies with...the all powerful, Anya! I will go Anya-Style on you!"

_She's…slurring her words. Anya Powers, is slurring her words. Anya Powers…is…drunk. Drunk in the Hunger Games…and I thought I'd seen everything._

I sigh and lean against the sandbag and wood supported trench wall, staring at the multitude of planes and fires raging throughout the sky…and yes there are fires literally in the sky. I don't understand how this energy source can defy gravity, but it is. And the Capitol has made it work.

Roulla turns her head in surprise and stumbles backward as she eyes me. Anya also sees me, but doesn't appear fazed. She only looks at Roulla strangely and scratches her head.

Roulla clutches her neck and looks on the ground for something she can use to defend herself, "Step back! You, what is your name?"

I clear my throat, "Lucian. District 12. I'm not here for a fight, I'm just trying to discern this damned Arena."

Roulla eyes me warily, "Well, have fun with that. I can't find a single person here, and I can't find any weapons."

I rub my chin and look behind me...just in case, before moving in closer on Roulla and Anya. "I haven't seen anyone either. I did hear Canicus and a few others back in the trenches."

Anya looks at me with bemused interest, "How are ya not injured yet? I almost got killed by that ginger-psycho guy...right in the friggin' beginning!"

I shrug, "Lucky I suppose."

Roulla crosses her arms and stares at me with...something bordering on distaste and something else, "Mr. Drake, I'm not entirely sure how you've managed to survive as long as you have without sustaining injuries, but know that 12's chances last year were notoriously low. Your luck may run out soon, and know that if I had Con or Canicus with me, you would have been dead. Luckily for you both, I'm just having a rather difficult time locating my team at the moment."

_Stupid girl, she assumes Con would have killed me. Con would not betray me._

I only nod, because her instincts are right. Although, I can't see why mistrust is an issue, as nobody in this arena should be trusted. Roulla probably sees me as a threat, and I don't blame her. Seeing as I have no injuries whatsoever, and seeing how content and relaxed I appear to her, she probably sees me as a huge threat. She might even think I had killed someone already. But then again, I'm from District 12. While I may be a little taller than most, I certainly haven't killed anyone. I'm just as much a prey to the Capitol's power as anyone else is.

_Yes, I am a monster. But how would she know that?_

Roulla gestures to a swaying and obviously dazed Anya, "Anya, you told me you saw Jet. Where exactly was he when he tried to kill you?"

Anya laughs, a goofy little grin on her face, "Somewhere...over there!" Anya points to a random direction above the trenches.

Roulla sighs, "This isn't helping me. Anya, did it ever occur to you that you're intoxicated while competing in the Hunger Games? Do you even know where you are?"

Anya swipes her hand at Roulla and gives a "pfft" sound, walking calmly towards me and patting me on the back, "Good luck, Lucy-Ann, may the force be with you."

I eye her with confusion and she runs past the corner, but her foot collides with a broken section of the barrels and gets caught. She falls on her face while her ankle twists in an awkward position. "AHHHH! Who put that there!?"

Anya is spewing out curses I've never even heard of as she clutches her twisted looking ankle in pain. Roulla has her hand on her face in annoyance, while Anya hits the air in anger. Roulla looks like she's had it, and has picked up a slab of wood from off the ground.

Before Roulla can say or attempt anything, Brennadon, as fast as lightning, runs through our path. Not even glancing at us. Roulla, now confused, drops her piece of wood and looks back at the insane Bren. I impulsively follow suit, and I speed past Roulla and Anya, leaving them behind to follow Bren once more.

_What is Bren running from? His shoulder is bleeding, most likely from that barbed wire incident with Jonas._

Then, I see it. A single beam of light shoots from the middle of the sky towards a certain area of the battlefield above. It seems to be some distance away from the safety of the trenches.

_It could be a signal. Yes, it must be signaling the location of the Cornucopia._

Bren, somehow, knows exactly where to go to locate the Cornucopia. His coordination and reflexes are surprisingly sharp, and he's amazingly fast for his size. I knew there was something about Bren that was unpredictable. There's a weapon he's craving, and I just know it.

I'm beginning to hear an increasing number of shouts and a multitude of yelling from behind various walls. The ray of light seems to be getting closer, but it's still distant enough that it could be in the center of the open battlefield beyond the trench area.

The trenches are getting lower and lower as I follow Bren, and there appears to be an increasing number of explosions and barbed wire fences in this area. There were even barbed wire trip lines that I had to jump and duck under.

And then, as soon as I turn the corner, all the trenches and paths stop. All trenches from the right and left side of me also abruptly stop. In front of me, a barbed wire paradise separates the trenches from the open battlefield. There aren't any more walls beyond this point, and all the barbed wire is so close together on the ground that it would be impossible to jump over.

_The only way to get past this field is to crawl under the barbed wire. There's no other way to traverse it._

Other tributes also emerge from the other trench pathways, and immediately on seeing one another, hastily begin to crawl under all the wire. Gunfire is being directed at us from the Guard Towers, but they're such bad shots that the bullets never make contact.

I follow suit after Bren, who is already crawling under the barbed wire. I fail to take notice as a tribute tumbles into me with full force and almost sends me careening into the barbed wire face first. I fall on one knee and all the nerves in my body are shattered. My entire body is in adrenaline mode again and my head throbs as a burst of hot and acidic anger rushes through my veins.

Pure rage drives me to my feet within milliseconds and I glance at my attacker; Sade Artois. I give her a stern shake of my head, and she attempts to shoot me an icy glare. She's supposed to be a Career, but her allies are so spread out around the arena that it's impossible for the Careers to have joined together so soon. Roulla is the most notable example, seeing as she attempted to ally with the drunken Anya Powers moments earlier.

Sade quickly readjusts herself and tries to stand tall, but it's difficult when she's facing someone who towers over her petite frame. Sade charges me again and she's as fast and ruthless as I would have imagined, but I manage to side step her shoulder tackle and she almost runs into the barbed wire herself.

She grunts and wipes her mouth, crouching down low in preparation to charge at me again, but of course, she has to mock me beforehand. "Come on, Twelve! Let's finish this now, the Games are lacking in deaths, don't you think?"

Sade runs at me and before I can even get a chance to sidestep her again she goes to the ground and attempts to sweep me under my feet. Such a maneuver fails, however, seeing as I'm still standing. Sade glares at me with a ruthless looking expression, "I'm going to kill you for embarrassing me like that," she mutters coldly, still on the ground.

A grin stretches across my face, "And how exactly do you propose to do that, Sade? I haven't seen any weapons for miles."

I reach my hand to help her to her feet, but she smacks it away and quickly stands, "You think you're funny, don't you, Twelve? You think this won't come back on you?"

_This is absolutely ridiculous. What is this girl trying to prove?_

I glance at the now distant Bren who, along with several other tributes, are crawling under the long and expansive field of barbed wire, while hard rain pours on everyone's heads, effectively wearing down our jackets.

I clench my jaw and walk over to the now defensive Artois, "Perhaps instead of brawling like deranged animals, we should make our way to the battlefield. If we keep this up, we'll be shot at for sure."

Sade looks up, seemingly as if for the first time, at the tall Guard Towers, almost hidden within the curtain of rain. She looks...terrified, but it's quick.

_Does she know someone up there?_

Gunshots are piercing through the veil like thunder, some managing to hit sandbags, tearing them open and causing dust clouds. One gunner seems to be aiming near our vicinity, and I push Sade to the ground as gunshots ring past my head. Sade eyes me with caution but I signal her to keep low, "We need to crawl over to the barbed wire…and crawl some more. It's the only way to get over there without getting shot in the head. The wire will prevent most shots once we're under, but we're defenseless at the moment. You up for it?"

Sade looks at me like I'm insane, and she squints her eyes at me, no doubt running me over in her mind.

"If you try anything, Twelve, I swear this will be the end of you. Got that?" Sade whispers in a dangerous and forced tone, but for some reason I do not feel thoroughly convinced by her attitude.

I stare at her for far longer than I should have, because I'm honestly trying to comprehend her reasoning. Her actions border on both determined and cold, and yet underneath her eyes I can vaguely detect a mind filled with stress and weariness. My distracted gaze flickers up towards the orange flashing lights of the Guard Towers, and I'm wondering why this certain Guard has decided to shoot at me now when before this had not been the case.

_I'm not the target._

_"_Sade, it seems to me like you're quite popular right about now. You can't trust me, but I nor you. Even so, I don't think I could do much underneath all that wire anyway."

Sade huffs and relents, apparently convinced by my argument and we crawl over along the muddy path, partially hidden by the rain and low trench wall. Sade manages to get under the barbed wire and I take the next wire path. The crawling under all the wire is long and treacherous, and explosions are vibrating the very earth.

_Well this is an interesting turn of events._

One of the gunners in the Towers seems to be very interested in either Sade or I, and I'm not entirely sure where this gunner seems to be aiming. One gunshot manages to graze the back of my knee, and bullet and wire shrapnel shatter above it. The bullet doesn't make contact, but the graze causes a scratch. I barely even notice it, and I might as well have had a feather thrown at me. At least I have some sort of injury.

At last the barbed wire trail ends and I crawl back to my feet just at the same time Sade does. Just as I had assumed the entire battle field is open to any environmental dangers. I can see a speck in the distance, and the ray of light shines directly on it.

_The Cornucopia._

Sade hesitates when she encounters me again, "You...are a fool. Do you know that? I could have easily killed you at any given moment. I could kill you right now."

I assume I'm supposed to feel fear. After all, I'm facing my supposed killer. But I just can't feel it. I'm frozen, my face locked in a blank expression in the presence of someone for the first time.

_What am I supposed to feel? I've never been in this situation before...Why can't I feel it? Did the books talk about this? Think...think!_

What did the books detail on impending death? What do people experience before they die? What emotion is death attached to? I've never read about this. I want to think I know...I want to think I have the ability to express this.

_I just can't._

Sade shoves me, picking up a piece of splintered debris within seconds, steadily aiming it towards my exposed throat. But before it can make contact, she stops it.

_Not anger, not sadness, not...happiness. Surprise? What else is there?_

Sade's dark eyes search mine, her face contorted into a combination of wonder and disgust, "You didn't even flinch. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you even _care_ if you die?"

My eyes are searching for an answer, and for the first time, I cannot find it. For the first time, I cannot find a mask.

"No—I guess I don't," I frown, my eyes lingering on lost scriptures.

Sade's eyebrows scrunch, for the first time, seeing as they're always raised in question. She drops the wood and smirks, "Perhaps you're crazier than I thought, Twel—"

I cut her off, "It's Lucian."

She stares at me, but her eyes do not hold mine, which is odd even for a tribute such as herself, "Thanks for earlier...Lucian."

_Such odd behavior for a Career._

But her expression turns sour again, her eyes icy and her tone full of recessed anger, "I am a Career. This...never occurred, and will never again occur. If I see you again, I'll be sure to kill you, and you'll never see it coming. Right now, though, I have bigger prey to hunt."

I stare after her as runs off to somewhere in the debris littered field. It would have been nice to use her for my plan, but she wouldn't have been wanted to be seen with a District 12 tribute. I sigh and continue down the now very open battlefield. Obviously, she has a score to settle with someone. That would explain her impulsive frustration and her insane running earlier.

My thoughts are scattered and conflicted, running over various memories of my different masks. Not once have I been so clueless. Not once. I'm going to have to experiment.

_I will need a Rat, first._

No sooner than that, that I heard the pang of a gunshot somewhere off in the distance. The gunshot is soon followed by the sound of a piercing cry.

_Looks like a Guard finally found their mark._

While the large and open field is open to any danger, large assortment of debris and fire litters it. So, it isn't completely desolate like the large mud, mine field to the very south. Planes are continuing to zoom and drop package bombs near me, and I have to keep telling myself to focus on the task at hand.

Then, I see Bren again. He's running around the field, jumping over barrels and oddly seemingly careless in his efforts. I sigh at his ignorance and then it almost turns into full blown laughter as he steps near a piece of oddly shaped debris in the field and he goes flying several feet in the air.

_So, it seems mines are scattered around this field._

The impact of the explosive device sends Bren careening into a barrel, and while he wasn't close enough for the device to kill him, it's enough that it seems to have broken or at least bruised his ribs. A piece of shrapnel also seems to be sticking out of his back, not deep enough though. I could end his life there, but mines could be anywhere, and now I'm even more paranoid than before.

I'm paying more attention to my feet than I am to the ever growing shape and glowing ray of the Cornucopia. I walk carefully around the debris littered field and come across a sight I thought I would never see.

The coin of Rossencourte himself. Golden and shining as bright as the sun, with the District 4 symbol engraved on it. This couldn't be a trap, it would be too obvious. Con was here, and he dropped his coin. It even has his markings along the top of it. I sigh as I pick up the small and elegant looking coin and search in the distance for any signs of Rossencourte. Other than the Cornucopia, explosions, and unconscious Bren, there aren't any signs of anyone out here, not even Sade or any of the tributes that were crawling under the barbed wire.

I flip the golden coin in my hands with ease. Con would have never dropped his token, it was good luck. Whatever may have happened to him, he's gone now. He was obviously in a struggle, but if he died, well then it's a pity. I flip the shining coin once more, and place it in my Cargo pants pocket.

_It's in good hands now, friend._

I continue across the field, avoiding any possible mines or tributes that may be wandering around. Explosions continue to rain down, and so does the rain itself. But only one noise stands out above the rest, and that is the shrill cry of a girl.

I stand alertly, almost sniffing the air around me to locate the sound. I run across the field, while the crying grows. My head is still throbbing and my thoughts are growing too powerful to control. But I manage to keep them at bay. Sort of. I believe I've already snapped, but it's been so long. If I do ever need a pill, there's one in my journal. But that is as a last resort. All I care about now is determining the source of this crying.

The crunching of my boots on the dirt and rocks cannot be heard over the rain and explosions, so if it's some sort of a trap, I won't be detected ahead of time. I scan the field for the source and easily detect it. It belongs to a rather frail looking girl, who's wandering helplessly through the field. She keeps tripping, and her outfit is adorned with a multitude of rips and tears.

_This girl looks rather confused._

I quietly follow her and watch her from several feet away. I do not recognize her, and she's a rather small girl. She stumbles to the ground again and lands on her back; her shoulders are shaking and her face is drenched with rain and tears.

I walk over and stand over her fallen form. At the sight of me her eyes panic and she tries to get back to her feet but can't get her footing and simply sinks lower to the ground. I give her a reassuring smile and lend her my hand. She sizes me up from the ground, and she tries desperately to appear unfazed by my presence…but it's easily seen that she is terrified out of her mind.

_Am I really that intimidating?_

Fresh tears drip down the girl's face as she warily takes my gloved hand. I lift her to her feet with ease and she timidly yanks her delicate hand away.

The rain is pouring down harder than ever.

"What's your name?"

The girl hesitates, and the only thing I hear from her mouth is a sob. She clears her throat and tries again, "Bi—Bianca. I'm…I'm from District 11. Please don't hurt me."

I shake my head, "I wouldn't do that. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm Lucian from District 12."

Bianca nods in desperation, appearing lost. She looks around her at the chaos, "I—I don't know where to go! I can't find my partner and I'm so lost…I just want to go home!"

Bianca sobs again and I comfort her, "It's going to be alright. You'll get to your partner soon." I give her a stern look and decide to help her out. "Bianca, you need to listen to me. We need to get to the Cornucopia, we can find supplies there. We can be allies until then. If I can get a sword, I can hold anybody off while you get what you need. But if you're good with weapons, we can both fight off while getting some things. Are you good with anything?"

Bianca looks toward the sky and back at me, "I—Not really. I'm not really good at much. I just—I just want to get home," she cries gently.

_The girl is sobbing and shaking; it's as if she were being sent off to the slaughterhouse. I can't possibly ally with her._

I rub my face and try very hard not to sigh in front of her. Any sort of discouraging motion may put her off, she's just that timid.

"Bianca, lead the way to the Cornucopia—"

"But, I'm not very good! We—We'll get attacked! I can't even protect us!"

I calm her again, "Shhh, Bianca, I'll be right behind you. You're going to be alright with me, I promise." I grab the crying Bianca by the shoulders and bend down a little to be at eye level with her. "Bianca, look! I'm tall! I've got some training…everything is going to be just fine."

Bianca nods quietly; drips of small rainwater fall off of her ebony curls like small pearls and I cannot tell for certain if these are her tears or just the rainwater. She looks up at me with those darkened but life-filled eyes and speaks with renewed confidence , "Alright, Lucian. I think I can do this."

I smile at her, "Of course you can. Remember, I'll be right behind you. Let me just look for something I can use as a weapon…just in case."

Bianca walks ahead, carefully sidestepping any debris or anything that might potentially be hazardous. I scan the ground for a makeshift weapon I can use in the meantime. I see a downed fence post with barbed wire wrapped around the top. I kick the post from the base and tear it from the debris. I twirl and bounce it in my hand to make sure it's sturdy.

_This should work._

Bianca looks back at me, swallowing nervously as she sees the makeshift club in my hands. If I'm going to be her ally, she's going to have to trust me. "So...Bianca, you got any family or friends at home?"

She widens her eyes at the question, "Y—Yeah. A few...I really want to go back to them."

I glance up at the mysterious fires in the sky, still questioning the purpose. "You will, Bianca. You just have to trust me, and hopefully, I can...take you back to your partner."

Bianca's mood seems to change at this statement, and she speaks to me attentively. "Have you seen him? His name is Eric, and I promised I would find him!"

I frown at this, and I give her a pained look. "No, I'm afraid I haven't. I barely made it alive through the trenches..."

Bianca's heads shifts downwards, and I decide to tell her the truth. "Bianca, you have to understand, the Careers have already formed, and if they've seen Eric, they would have gotten him already. I'm not trying to worry you, but the chances that you'll see him again...are rather slim. Bianca, I...I saw his body. He's not going to find us."

My eyes flicker quickly to her, my head low and alert. Bianca stops, eyes watering again, but the tears never fall. For some reason, she clenches her fists and tightens her jaw, as if she was holding in all the pain she felt. Her eyes darken sharply and her expression seems almost...dangerous. Then she continues on as if I hadn't said a word.

_Bianca looked different there...she looked visibly angry._

Then I hear her whisper faintly, just a ghost above all the noise, "I will win for him."

Thunder crashes, and the lightning is an unnatural shade of purple.

I tighten my gloved hands around the base and clench my jaw. I scan the horizon and see the looming Cornucopia with its mouth raised toward the sky. We're still some ways, but it shouldn't be long. The ray of light that had been shining on the Cornucopia is now fading back into the clouds, and I've been seeing a great many tributes running towards it from a distance. Explosions are occasionally going off, and one went off near Bianca, and she reacted viciously. She screamed like a banshee and kicked the air, almost like a rabid cat. It may have been amusing if this were not the Games. But for some reason, her antics made me go sour, and anyone could have easily seen or heard us.

I take out Con's coin from my pocket and flip it in the air, letting it fall to the ground. I glance at the coin and rub some dirt on it with my boot. Rain soaks the dirt and makes it look muddy, but this will do.

I stop before the coin and I shout for my ally, "Bianca! I think I may have found something! Come quickly!"

Bianca runs over and eyes the coin, staring at it with confusion and then staring back at me in a similar manner, "I think it's a trap…but I'm not too sure..."

I carefully move behind Bianca and gesture for her to pick it up. And she does so.

"What does it say, Bianca?"

Bianca's fingers are shaking as she fiddles with it, her features scrunching up, searching for the answer that doesn't exist in the shiny, golden piece of metal.

"It says...it doesn't really say anything. It just has a symbol...and I think some carvings."

"Bianca, go ahead and flip it. Tell me what side it lands on."

Bianca looks at me with bewilderment, "But...why?"

I smile at her, "It's...a little game I used to play with my brothers when I was younger. It kept us calm in times of stress."

She keeps her eyes on mine, though unconvinced, and throws the miniature fleck of sun in the air. It lands on the rocky ground with a jingle.

"So, what side did it land on, Bianca?"

She walks over to look at the coin, but she turns back to me, "Lucian, what about the Cornu—"

"—Bianca, did the coin land on heads or tails?"

Bianca furrows her eyebrows and peers down, "Heads..."

I give a silent chuckle; the very sound slicing through the tense air like a needle. Even through the thunder and rain, the jester's tricks can never be silenced.

"Lucian, what—"

I viciously kick the back of her legs, sweeping my foot under her, causing her to fall back head first on the dirt and mud. Bianca is screaming, but I don't care anymore. I've waited too long. I've thought too much, and it's hurting my head.

I kneel down and choke her with my gloved hand, and she claws at me with surprisingly sharp nails. A long and vicious scratch extends under my eye now.

I quickly stand up and kick her once in the side with my solid boot, causing her to gasp in pain. I place one solid foot on her stomach and she can barely breathe, but she manages to whisper, "Why?"

I glare down at her helpless frame, legs and arms flailing, and her haunting screams cutting and slicing the air to pieces. I mutter down to her, speaking elegantly and smoothly, all the while holding a smile on my face.

"Bianca, you can go home now."

I breathe in all the air I can muster, blood trickling down from my eye as I raise my makeshift barbed wire club, and send it through her skull. I can still feel her chest rising under my boot, so I do it once more.

_I should have hit her in the neck, would have saved some of the wire from splitting. Though it was heads, after all._

Her eyes are still faintly glowing with life as I kneel down on one knee and examine my work. The rush of excitement and adrenaline is circulating through my entire being like I had never imagined it. Everything in my world has stopped, and only Bianca and I remain. Nothing means anything anymore, not the things I've done in the past, not the things I will do. Everything that I had ever done or will do is completely irrelevant.

_Why? I don't really know. I've grown too bored of...hiding. I've resisted the darkness for too long; I was growing weary of fighting it. So I just let it take me._

All my waiting has been worth it. All of my deeds, and all of my torture. All of my self inflictions, all of my sadistic thoughts. All those years and years of popping pills…have been worth it. And then, my vision tinges with the red, but this time, I relish in it. I relish in the control of life and death. I relish in my own twisted monstrosity. I have relished in it ever since I was a boy.

Ever since, years ago, on that gloomy day that I had watch a moth's life whither away. I had watched the thing flutter about on the windowsill with vivid interest. I couldn't take my eyes away as it flapped its wings for the last time, and fell to the bottom, helpless against the forces of death. Its legs shriveled up and I could feel the life of it drain away before my very eyes.

Yes...that was the memory! The moth! But...how? I didn't remember it until now, come to think of it, I don't recall the moth ever being in my head until now. It's as if...it _did_ happen.

The moth...it changed me. I was a young boy, but it was the moth. Something happened after, but I don't seem to remember.

_The Moth._

_It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed._

And ever since that day so long ago, I have had this obsessive desire to replicate its death. To witness the beauty of death, and to witness nature in its purest form. Emotionally, I don't exactly feel anything. My heart is hallow, and I'm not so sure I've ever needed it anyway.

And here I kneel, finally, in the Hunger Games, fulfilling my destiny. And at Bianca's final moments, I can see the life fade away from those black pools. Her eyes, now glassy and distant, nothing how they were several minutes ago. It's like she's permanently fixated on a place that's just not there. She looks so innocent, so helpless. The fear in her eyes, the fear in her voice, it haunts me...

_And I want more._

The demons in my head are dancing with glee, laughing and celebrating in their freedom. For the first time, I laugh with them; _what's to lose?_

For the first time, I feel content in their presence.

I stare at the fallen Bianca and wish for the feelings of excitement and delight to rush back into me, but alas, they have gone. The rush was beyond anything I could ever imagine...but there is this feeling...this sickening feeling in my heart that what I'm feeling is a sense of deja vu.

_It's as if I had experienced this before..._

_What have I missed being on the pill? So, so much._

I reach down and tear the dog-tags off of Bianca's neck. I tie the chain around a belt loop of my pants and continue onward. I pick up Con's coin and place it in my pocket.

The Cornucopia is just ahead, and a multitude of tributes are standing near it.

_Perhaps I can obtain my Khopesh here._

However, as I near the Cornucopia, the eerie silence of the field dawns on me, and I have the vaguest feeling that something is very wrong.


	42. Eyes Filled with Horror

Bloodbath Part II

Damian Blackwater by xXTeamFinnickXx

* * *

"_It's just another war, just another family torn,_

_My voice will be heard today,_

_It's just another kill,_

_The countdown begins to destroy ourselves."_

_~ Skillet_

* * *

When the gong sounds, my body goes into battle mode. I can't let myself get distracted. I can't continue wondering if my mother was telling the truth about my father back at the justice building. I can't even dwell on the fact that Bandit got himself lost somewhere in the Capitol. Right now, as much as it pains me to do so, I have to focus on getting out of this hellhole alive, and sadly, this will be my mindset for the next few days. Or is it weeks? Who knows? Either way, only one person matters in the arena, and that person is me.

In a way, this lifestyle isn't too different from what I've endured back in District 8. I mean, I have just as much a chance of dying back home as I do here. The only thing that bugs me is the actual killing. Sure, I've stolen and I've ruined lives and I've beaten people up, but I've never _murdered _someone. I'm not a killer, I'm really not, but I guess that's what I have to become if I want to survive.

_Snap out of it, Damian, _I tell myself. Really, it shouldn't be that hard. I just need to think of each kill as another robbery. I steal so I can support myself, so I can continue living. Isn't that the same as winning the Hunger Games? Besides, none of these people matter to me. They're all either Class A or B anyway. Well, except one.

_Anya._

That girl amazes me. She's no moronic Class A or selfish Class B. She's different, like me. She's Class C, and that in itself means she deserves to live more than anyone else in this arena. She shouldn't even be here, fighting for her life. She should be doing so much more with her life. And I'm sure she would be…if she wasn't wasted half the time.

But there's more to her than alcohol, another side that no one bothers to look at. I don't know what it is exactly, but in the moment she kissed me in the elevator, drunk or not, she opened my eyes. She made me realize how amazing she truly is. How thoughtful and inspiring she can be.

I shake my head angrily. That kiss of hers got into my system and now it's tearing me apart from the inside out. I have to forget about it if I want to stand a chance at winning this thing.

The gong sounded less than a few seconds ago. I guess the appearance of the arena and my mindless wondering distracted me, but luckily, I don't seem to be the only one taken by surprise. In one swift movement, I'm off my plate and sprinting full speed across the open field. My eyes jet around frantically, searching for any sign of Anya, but in all the chaos, I can't seem to find her.

The monumental watchtowers are still a good distance away, allowing me to worry about other things for a minute. The rest of the tributes have finally recovered from the initial shock of the all out war going on around us and started their fight for survival. Several people dive into the maze of trenches, which is pretty dumb if you ask me. How do they expect to find the Cornucopia that way? Well, maybe they're trying to find a way out. Not that I care. Right now, I'm focused on the tributes who have decided to take my path, straight towards the golden horn.

My pace slows down as I realize I have some time to save my energy. After all, I'm the closest person to the Cornucopia, and the fastest tribute here by far. I have nothing to worry about until…

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

Barbed wire. They just _had_ to throw that in here, didn't they?

I frown at the large layout of wire before me. For a second, I contemplate taking a few steps backwards and jumping over the obstacle, but what if I don't make it? That'd be messy.

Distracted by my strategizing, I pause for much longer than I should have and the other tributes begin to catch up. I watch as one girl, the ditzy blonde from 1, dives nimbly under the wire, pulling herself quickly along, despite her complaints about all the mud. I growl, hating myself for not being the first one under, when I'm shoved from behind. I lose my balance and almost go toppling into the wire.

"What the hell?" I shout angrily, whirling around to face my opponent. He stares into my enraged eyes in horror, taking a step back. The boy obviously didn't mean to run into me, but before he can protest, I realize who he is and smirk.

"Ah," I say wickedly. "The Armani boy, huh? Think you stand a chance just because your sister dominated last year?" He grits his teeth at the mention of his sister and regains the ground he lost. My grin widens. "Well, let's see if you've got as much game as she did, shall we?"

One solid punch is all it should take to get this guy down. I mean, he doesn't exactly seem like the biggest threat in the arena. Unfortunately, he's quicker than I give him credit for. Three swings and three misses. Damn, I've gotta get it together if I plan on winning. Finally, I land a jab to his stomach and he doubles over in pain. "Pathetic," I say to myself as my other fist collides with his jaw. Suddenly, I freeze. How the hell am I supposed to kill this guy? I don't even have a weapon.

Shrugging, I decide not to waste anymore time and seize the back of his military jacket, throwing him face-first into the barbed wire.

"See you around," I say cheerfully as I hit the deck and begin to crawl, now delayed by my fight. Desperately trying to make up for it, I crawl as fast as I can, successfully managing to score minimum scratches. I don't stop until I'm greeted by the sole of someone's boot. Adjusting my course, I crawl up next to the tribute to see that it's Admire, the blonde from 1. I guess she counts seeing me as an excuse to start talking.

"Look at this!" she shrieks, shoving her muddy hand in my face. The nail of her ring finger still looks perfectly manicured, but the rest are broken and jagged. "Do you know how long my stylist spent on these?"

I'm sorry, I just can't help myself. I have to laugh. She's in the middle of a fight to the death, and she's worried about her broken nails? If I were her, I'd be a little more concerned about getting out of here alive. I crawl away, being sure to splash some mud in her face as I go, inducing another squeal. Isn't District 1 supposed to supply us with terrifying, highly-trained warriors? I'm not quite sure where they went wrong with Admire. I'm definitely sorting her into Class A.

I hastily pull myself out on the other side of the barbed wire, getting to my feet and scraping away some chunks of mud. The only thing between me and the Cornucopia now is the row of watchtowers, and of course, the fighter jets swooping in from overhead.

At about the same time, two other tributes get up from under the wire on either side of me, Juniper from 9 and Eric from 11. We exchange a looks of anger and determination before all three of us take off towards the horn. By the looks of it, we're the closest people to the prize that awaits us. There's no way I'm letting them get all the good stuff.

The distance between us and the Cornucopia slowly begins to close, and before I know it, we're halfway there, with yours truly in the lead. But that's when the jets begin to fire.

I stop in my tracks next to Juniper, her mouth gaping at the aircrafts, but Eric keeps going strong. It looks like he has the right idea, because the next thing I notice is a single plane opening fire on Juniper and I.

Instinctively, I dive roll forward, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the head. I come up running, my breathing heavily increasing. Seconds later, I'm hit with an ear piercing scream from behind. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Juniper on her knees, clutching her shoulder. Looking past the dust cloud left behind in the fighter jets' wake, I can see it oozing blood. A bullet wound, no doubt. Well, it's partially her fault. She could've gotten out of the way like I did.

But that's not the only thing I notice. My keen eyes make out another shape walking quickly from the direction of the wire. She has one hand out in front of her and the other clutching one of the many cuts on her arm. Her face is also decorated in blood. It takes me a minute to realize it's the blind girl from 6. She trips and basically falls on Juniper. I force myself to look away. Hey, I'm a thief, not a heartless monster. I know Londyn is one person I could never force myself to kill.

Not willing to let anything set me off course again, I press on, sprinting behind Eric on our way to the Cornucopia, jets shooting at us the whole way, but it seems now that they're not trying to kill us. None of their shots land, but instead kick up more puffs of dirt around us. I cough and close my eyes, but I don't stop. Not until I hear a loud explosion.

My eyes jerk open and I'm suddenly at my highest level of caution. I jog up next to Eric who has stopped as well. For some reason, a fight doesn't seem to be in order here, so instead I shout over the chaos, "What the hell was that?"

Eric barely has time to shrug before shouting, "Look out!" I'm not sure why he warned me, but I'm glad he did. We dive in opposite directions as the ground beneath us explodes, sending bits of rock and shrapnel into the sky. I hit the ground hard, but Eric is already back on his feet, running for the Cornucopia once again. The horn is so close, within sprinting distance, so I shakily get up and chase after him.

With no warning, landmines begin going off left and right. My ears are ringing at this point, but my nimble feet and swift movements manage to keep me alive. I'm just about to catch up to Eric when I notice a bulge in the dirt in front of him. I duck and cover my head, but he isn't quick enough. He dives sideways as the mine explodes and a piece of shrapnel flies straight at him, slicing a shallow gash in his arm. He grunts in pain, but reluctantly continues to move.

In all the confusion, I hadn't even realized that there are people in the watchtowers, and they appear to be shooting at us. Unlike the fighter jets, these guys are out to kill. My mind begins to try and figure out if they're mutts or actual human beings.

I slowly begin to move again. I'm so close to the Cornucopia now. I can already feel the security of the supplies in my hands. I stay on alert, however, as one wrong move could-

_BOOM!_

My vision blurs and I slam into a wall, a searing pain erupting in my right leg. I slide down into a sitting position as I grip the wounded area with my hands. I yelp, immediately retracting them. What I just felt was definitely _not_ my leg. My eyes begin tearing up as a result from all the dust and the unbearable pain as they gradually move down my body.

"Shit."

A large chunk of shrapnel is jutting out of my thigh. It must have gone in pretty deep too, as I can barely feel any of my leg. Blood tries to make its way out of the wound, but there isn't much room for it to escape.

"Be a man, Damian," I say out loud. "Just rip it out." But the second I begin to pull, the pain only increases. I grit my teeth and decide it's better to stop. Right now, that shrapnel is keeping all my body's blood from escaping. I need to keep it in until I can find a quick, clean way to patch it up.

My head is racked by another explosion. I shield my eyes as a cloud of dust barrels my way. I hear a thud against the watchtower I lean against and know right away that it wasn't caused by a piece of shrapnel. I slowly remove my hands from my eyes and immediately wish I hadn't.

Sitting in the dirt next to me is the head of Alexis Spurling, the District 7 girl. The worst part? Her horrified eyes are still very much alive.

I scramble backwards, having some difficulty, thanks to my leg. I let out a shout of disgust as the bodiless head stares at me longingly, like there's something I'm supposed to do to help. I've heard somewhere that people remain alive for a few moments after their head is severed. Something about the brain still functioning. I watch as what's left of Alexis struggles to move her mouth, but in a few seconds, her head goes limp and her eyes become still.

My whole body shudders. In the distance, I can see the motionless corpse of the poor girl in the middle of the minefield. Beside it is Alexis' hat and a boomerang-shaped chunk of metal, slightly colored with blood. I assume that's what sliced off her head.

The overwhelming sensations of shock, disgust, and horror going through my mind make me want to stay still and take everything in for a second, but of course, that can't be allowed. I curl up in a ball as two shots are fired from the watchtower above me. The first strikes the dirt, but the second goes straight through my right boot, digging into my foot.

"Son of a bitch!" I yell, clutching my second injury. The blood from this one pours out more steadily, but I shake it off. It's only my foot, I should live…right?

Angrily looking up towards the watchtower, I spot a flag waving in the wind, bearing the number eight. A boy around my age smiles down at me, brandishing a gun. "I hit him!" he shouts excitedly. "I got him!"

I shake my fist angrily as I stare in disbelief at the boy. "What gives?" I shout. "What the hell was that for?"

After a minute of trying to put things together, I recognize his face. It's some boy I went to school with a few years back. His family's wealthy, so when I first started my life of crime, his house was the first one I hit, and I didn't hesitate to take anything that seemed valuable. I can only imagine the hate he feels towards me right now.

I want to apologize or something, not out of generosity, but to keep him from shooting at me again. I'm about to open my mouth when a few more people come to the edge of the tower. Their faces are all familiar. They're all from my district. You would think they'd take pity on me, being from the same place and all, but I guess I've caused them too much trouble in the past.

"Listen guys," I say smoothly. "Can't we talk this out or something?"

Apparently not.

I flatten myself against the wall and get to my feet as they open fire, thankfully missing every shot. My right leg, having suffered two notable injuries so far, is nothing but dead weight, and it poses more of a problem than I expected. I'm known for my swiftness, stealth, and speed. Without that, I'm nothing and right now I can barely keep myself upright.

But there's no way I'm sticking around. I've got at least a dozen angry people up in that tower trying to kill me. On top of that, I have a minefield to cross and a pile of supplies to secure. And let's not forget, I still have an arena of bloodthirsty teenagers and hidden traps to take care of. In short, I need to get going.

Moving as quickly as possible, I hobble back out into the open, heading straight for the body of Alexis Spurling. The fighter jets must see that I'm going through enough at the moment, because they leave me alone and aim for the other tributes. Several of District 8's watchtower's bullets come close to hitting me, but they must have pretty bad aim, because I make it to Alexis' corpse in one piece.

Bending down, I reach for the chunk of metal, because right now, it's the closest thing I've got to a weapon. I grip it in my right hand, but drop it soon after as a long but shallow cut forms in my palm. I curse under my breath before scooping up Alexis' hat. I would use my own, but I think I lost it back by the barbed wire. Using the flimsy cap as a sort of hand guard, I grab the metal again, being careful not to cut myself. I turn it over in my hands. Despite it's jagged shape, it could pass for a short sword, or at least a really big knife. You know, if swords and knives were bent at a hundred degree angle. Maybe I can fix it up later.

I'm about to take off when my eyes catch something glistening in the dirt. Curiously, I scoop it up, immediately knowing what it is. Engraved in the metal is:

_Alexis Spurling_

_District 7_

I examine the dogtag carefully. I have one of my own, hanging around my scratch-covered neck. I guess they're supposed to go with our whole military look. Looking around cautiously, I shove the necklace in the pocket of my black cargo pants. Alright, I know what you're thinking, but I'm not _stealing_ it. While I do have the strange urge to rob someone, something I haven't done since I slipped the ring off our escort's finger on the train, that's not what this is about. If Alexis' body is taken away, what will be left of her? What will let anyone know that she was ever thrown into this arena in the first place? I'm not even sure myself, but maybe I'm holding onto it to keep her memory alive. Like I said, I'm not heartless. No matter the motivation, I just don't think someone should die like that, with nothing but pictures and memories left of them.

Please don't think I'm turning my life into a chick flick. If anyone asks, I'll tell them it's to keep track of who died so far.

Another landmine explosion reminds me that I have things to be doing. Giving Alexis' headless body one more look, I turn and limp the rest of the way to the Cornucopia. I may be slowed to the extreme, but I have a weapon now. I'm ready to take out anyone who stands in my way.

Finally, I stumble into the area surrounding the Cornucopia. My head is down, but I can tell no one else is here. It strikes me as a little strange, but hey, maybe they all got what they needed and left. I drag myself the last few yards to the horn until I reach it. I look up, and realize immediately why there're no other tributes here.

"Seriously?" I say quietly. Looking around. No supplies. Nothing. No weapons, no food, no health kits, nothing. Just a big, stupid horn.

Strangely, I begin to laugh. Not the happy, joyful kind, but the kind when someone gets so stressed that they can't believe what's going on and the feel the need to do something. "I hope you're having fun," I say loudly, directing my comment to any gamemaker that's listening. "Because I definitely am _not_."

Taking another look around the barren space, I decide it's best not to stick around. Sure, I have a shabby, homemade weapon, which is probably more than the other tributes can say, but I'm not in the mood to kill. After all, I have two wounds that need mending. I sigh as I remember I have nothing to bandage them with. Whatever. I'm resourceful. I have been my whole life. I'll figure something out.

I hobble to the other side of the Cornucopia. The pain in my leg is slightly more tolerable, but I know that if I don't do something about my wounds soon, there's no way I can go on.

There's still no sign of Anya, and considering I have no idea where she could possible be, I don't look for her. I guess for now, I have to take care of myself. On the other side of the horn is a sparse, practically dead forest. Most of the trees have little to no leaves and the ground is barren except for a few shrubs. The mud seems deep and virtually unnavigable and who knows what kinds of mutts and traps are lurking inside.

Seems like the best direction to go in, right?

As I head for the pathetic excuse of a forest, I realize what I've just accomplished. I've made it out of the Bloodbath of the first Quarter Quell. That's something to be proud of, I guess. I can only wonder how many tributes perished in the battlefield behind me.

What also crosses my mind is a more negative thought. The Games have officially begun, and from now on, things are only going to get worse.

As I disappear into the shadows of the woods, I spit between barred teeth, "May the odds be ever in _my_ favor."


	43. A Cautionary Tale

_Sorry for the delay. I had...an issue. It's been resolved as best as it's going to get. So here you go! The next chapter will close out the bloodbath, and I warn you the overall death count will be slow. Phoenix and Belles are waging both physical and mental warfare. More to be explained in the next Gamemaker chapter which will occur after the bloodbath. _

_(note, after that we will keep a list at the bottom of each chapter someone dies in to tell who all has been killed in order and how and who the kill is attributed to)_

**Bloodbath Part III**

**Piper Young by ThornyRoseIsTrue**

* * *

_You Have To Show Them That You're Really Not Scared_  
_You're Playin' With Your Life, This Ain't No Truth Or Dare_  
_They'll Kick You, Then They Beat You,_  
_Then They'll Tell You It's Fair_

_Beat It by Michael Jackson_

* * *

There is a children's story in district 10 called "The Running Man". I grew up with the tale and retold the tale to the kiddies. Naturally, I could tell you word for word the old tale.

_"Long, long ago, before Panem, the world was a different place. Men owned men like property._

_Once you were owned, you had to do as the owner said. No, matter what they asked. Most owners just asked for you too work until you dropped. But some asked for more. Some would take your virginity, sell your loved ones to other owners, or even take the slaves life if they wanted to._

_They were property, who would care?_

_There was one slave owner who was particularly cruel to the men he owned. He would take one slave a week and force them to run. If they could outrun the white man, the slave would be free. But if the man caught them, he would shoot them through the head._

_He would then cut the mans head off and put it on a post on the outskirts of his property. They were used as a warning. "If you run, this will happen to you."_

_The next slave on the slave owners list was the man dubbed The Running Man. He took The Running Man out to the woods and told him "I will give you a 30 second head start. Once that time is up, I will come after you. If I catch you and kill you, you lose. If I can't catch you, you win and will be set free. Simple."_

_The slave owner shot his gun one time in the air, and the slave was off._

_The Running Man ran for hours, no matter how far he ran, the slave owner followed._

_That night there was a storm, and the slave owner lost sight of The Running Man._

_The Running Man, having run for so long was tired. "How easy would it be to stop running?" He said. "My owner is no where in sight. He must have given up."_

_But something made him continue to run. A nagging feeling you can say._

_So The Running Man ran for a year, never slowing down. He had been everywhere at least once, even places outside of Panem._

_Every time The Running Man wanted to stop, the nagging feeling came back and made him continue._

_As The Running Man reached his one-year anniversary, he saw a young lady. She was perfect._

_Too perfect for such a cruel world. The Running Man thought. The women had flawless skin, beautiful blond hair, and angelic features._

_"Why do you run?" She asked sweetly._

_"Because if I don't, I will die." He answered._

_"But if you keep running will you ever know true bliss?"_

_"What do mean?" The Running Man said._

_She giggled. "You must be lonely never staying in one place long."_

_"Yes, yes I am quite lonely."_

_"Then stay. You could never truly be happy if you are always running from your past. Stay with me, and I'll make sure you are never lonely."_

_And The Running Man did stop running. Together the two lived happily ever after for as long as they lived."_

Not the best children's story in district ten by a long shot. But the story is popular because of the second ending that is told when you are twelve.

Why would I bring up a children's story in the middle of such an awful place?

It's because I feel like The Running Man did when he ran from the slave trader. Desperate, scared. Oh so very scared. I have never been so scared in my life. Twenty-three others are hunting for me and wanting to put my head on a post.

Running to the cornucopia doesn't help my feeling of familiarity either.

There are two paths you could take to the cornucopia. One was a large field. The other was a narrow trench. I chose the narrow trench.

The trenches make me think of the maze made out of hedges last year. The two are both complications to getting to the bloodbath. But this year, the gamemakers aren't even trying to confuse us. There are even arrows painted on the sand bags pointing to which way you are supposed to go.

Suddenly my left leg slips and I find myself eating mud. "Ew!"

I lay in the mud, spitting the stuff out my mouth. _Smooth move, Pipper!_ _Trip and land in the __**mud**__ for Pete's sake._

I huff as I bring myself up to my feet. The whole front of my outfit is caked in mud. I can feel the brown stuff on my face and cringe. "Ew!" Not to mention my long curly hair has a lot of mud in it. My hair will be completely untamable tomorrow.

I bend over to pick up my hat, which flew off my head when I fell. I think about leaving the cap, but decide against it. The cap could come in handy later.

A sharp pain hits my check, out of instinct I touch my check. More pain comes from the check. "Shit!"

I turn and see a large guard tower. There is a person in the tower. He doesn't look like anybody else in the capitol, he looks normal. I don't have long to linger on this thought though.

He starts to reload his gun.

I run as fast as my legs can carry me. Everything I see comes with a clarity I have never had before. All of my senses are honed into one thing. Getting away from the shooters.

Another bullet flies past, taking a couple of curls with it.

Up ahead there is a small hill and the trench walls end. I push myself to the hill. On a normal day, anybody could scale the hill with ease. But the hill is made of mud, and it is raining. Hard. The hill is so slick I fall a few times.

Some embarrassing falls later. I make it to the top. On the top, about a foot from where I stand is barbwire. The wire is close to the ground, too close for my liking.

I look around, trying to find another pathway to the cornucopia, but find none. I have to go to through the barbwire to get to the cornucopia.

I think about turning back into the trenches. But the thought of being shot at again makes me decide against it.

The girl from three is going under the barbwire. She seems to have only a long cut behind her ear from the wire.

I glare at her. I doubt she notices though.

I know I am just stalling. All I can think of is the mud. I have had enough mud for one day already. And you want to know what is on the ground under the barbwire?

Mud. Lots of mud.

I cringe as I get on my knees, again I think about bolting back into the trenches. But I get on my belly and head through the barbwire.

Crawling through barbwire is tougher than I thought. The barbwire is just high enough to allow you through the section. This means you have to watch every movement you make.

If you move your head higher, you get a nice cut on your forehead. If you move your arms too high, you get a cut on your hand or put a hole in your jacket.

By the time I get out of the barbwire pit, I have a dozen or two small cuts from the barbwire on my hands and face. My jacket and pants have a few holes in them from where the barbwire cut into them.

Ahead is the cornucopia, but the odd thing is it's turned toward the sky. I can't see what could possibly be inside it.

There is a yellow ladder attached to the cornucopia, and I climb it.

Inside the cornucopia I find nothing. I stare in absolute disbelief. There is no weapon, no backpack, not even a piece of bread in the cornucopia. Instead of having the cornucopia filled with useful supplies, they filled it with water.

How can there not be any weapons? In all the Hunger Games I have seen, not once have I seen the cornucopia empty of supplies. How are we supposed to fight? With our bare hands?

I can almost feel the blood on my hands, slowly creeping up my arm. It starts to seep into my clothes. The blood paints an unnerving word. _Why?_

Such a simple word, but the word explains everything. _Why did you kill me? Why am I dead and not you? Why do you think you have the right to kill another human being?_

"Why, that plan was shot to shit. Foiled again!" The boy from seven shouts. (Now that I think about it, his name starts with a J. Jacob?) He takes off and goes down the side of the cornucopia.

I find a smile forming on my face; I might have laughed aloud if I hadn't just had a daydream about murdering people.

I notice someone else leave the cornucopia like Jacob. The boy from nine seems too be in very bad shape. Many scrapes litter his body, some of the most notable is a long gash on his forehead, a gash on his left arm. On his right arm is a cut that is bleeding badly. I couldn't see the extent of the cut, but it didn't look good. He also seemed too be having trouble running on his leg.

_I should probably get going too._ The longer I stay here the more likely someone more vicious will come along.

But I stay, because a crazy idea forms into my head. With the rain coming down so hard, it's hard to see what is really in the water. What if the gamemakers put the items down in the bottom of the cornucopia?

I get down on my knees, I take a deep breathe and plunge my head under the water. Looking down into the bottom, I don't see anything remotely interesting. Wait, I think I saw something. Something shiny.

Leaning into the water farther, I look too see if I can find something. But I don't see anything. The shiny thing I saw earlier must have been from the water.

Suddenly a push on my head causes me to become off balanced and sends me head first into the water.

You know how people say: "Don't panic." It's easier said then done.

All I can think is _I'm going to die._ I spin around trying too remember which way is up. And not getting any ground in the process.

I can't help but think of Lillian, how she must have felt the same way when she went under. It must have been just as scary for her. Maybe even more so for her because she didn't know how too swim.

_I know how to swim!_ After Lillian died, I would go to Lake Nixie to try to figure out how to swim. I watched herding dogs swim before, so I assumed it would work for humans. It did. Swimming like a dog took a long time to get to one side to the other. But it worked.

I cup my hands like I do for the doggy paddle and move my arms in a motion that I hope leads out of the water.

Just when I feel like my body can't take it any more, my head breaks out of the water. But as soon as I take a breathe my head is forced under again. I catch a glimpse of my attacker, a small form. _Sade_

Panic reaches me again, but not as strong. It's still hard too think, but my thoughts are more rational.

I dig my nails into her wrist. Out of reflex, she moves her hand, and I get away for a few seconds. But she grabs my hair and pushes me under again. It goes like this for a while. One second Sade has me under, the next I am free, then she holds me under again.

Until a small splash occurs next to me, before I could turn my head to look, a strong hand grabs my hair. I'm not sure why I'm not fighting. Maybe it's because the hands pulling my head out of the water or maybe because I'm getting worn out from all the fighting and running.

When my head comes out of the water, I open my eyes. In front of me is the boy from six. "S-s-sorry about pulling your hair." He says. He is rubbing his jeans nervously. "I-I-I couldn't find anything else to grab."

I nod. I haul myself out of the cornucopia and sit next to the boy. Suddenly I feel very tired. I've been practically going at full speed for the past five minutes. It seems strange that it could only be five minutes since these games began. It feels like hours.

I look into the cornucopia and find Sade flailing, trying to keep her head above water. I should go in and try and help her. But she'd just try and drown me again.

"What happened?" I ask.

"I couldn't stand to see you drown!" Six says, glaring at Sade who seems to stay afloat somehow. "It is wrong to just kill someone! You were defenseless in the water!"

I nod. Any other time I would be worried over the sudden shift from shy to outrage. But today I have been shot at, and nearly drowned. This is nowhere near my biggest worry right now.

I hear a loud whistling noise. I turn to Six. He looks just as confused as I feel. "W-we s-s-should leave."

I nod. Six stands first. He holds out his hand. I take it and he helps me up.

The whistling sound comes back, but this time louder. Closer.

I am still holding Six's hand. Then that was all that was left of him.

Pieces of Six raining down around me. All I can do is scream. Blood is all over my clothes, my hair. Hell, the blood is hanging in the air as a mist.

Then I realize I am holding on to Six's dead hand. I scream again, an animal like sound I didn't know I could make and I throw the hand as far as I can. It lands near Sade, she looks like she is going to puke.

I then do the next logical thing in my panic. Run. I run to where the ladder is and go down the ladder. Too bad someone was going up the ladder as I was going down.

The boy from five's head connected with my boot. He fell. A loud _crunch_ came with the _thud_ when he fell. I didn't stop. Not when I misjudged the fourth rung and landed next to him. He is screaming and crying while holding his leg.

I got up and ran. I ran until my legs gave out, because I am The Running Man. Aren't we all? The Running Man ran because he didn't want to die. And nobody wants to die.

The words my parents spoke to me on my first reaping repeat in my mind in an unbreakable loop.

_Pipper, do you remember that story we told when you were little? Well you see there is another ending. The true ending is that the women The Running Man fell in love with was the slave owner's wife. You see, no matter how far you run or hide, the slave owner will always find you. _


	44. Kill the Spare

****This was supposed to have gone up last night...unfortunately, I fell asleep at supper and slept all through the night. So...you get it now. Sorry about that!

So here you go, the finale of the bloodbath. There will be a kill list featured in the NEXT tribute's chapter. It will show up-updated in each chapter where someone dies.

* * *

**Canicus Macaulay of District 1**

**Bloodbath Finale ****by II-Gen3sis-II**

* * *

"_What we do upon some great occasion will probably depend on what we already are; and what we are will be the result of previous years of self-discipline.__"_

_- H.P. Liddon_

* * *

Deafening silence, that's all I can hear. It's almost as if time is standing still, a mere echo of once was, is not there anymore. There is nothing but stone cold, shivering silence. It's like time has completely stopped for this single snapshot of a moment as I stand here upon the rungs of a worn out, almost completely tattered ladder leading down into an abyss of torrential downpour and murky mud just waiting to trip people up. The dust shaken up from the bombs bombarding my senses does little to bring me out of this stupor at first. For the first time ever I find myself at a loss for comprehension, wondering if what I have just seen has actually taken place as the coppery smell of fresh blood permeates the muddled air, making it thick with the stench of death and destruction.

It takes me a moment to realize that the fine mist settling upon my skin is the blood of Edrick Quillheart. The missile exploding him into such fine particles that if anyone else had not seen this they would have thought I was trying to spray paint myself red. The last thing I saw as he ran at me trying to get away from the missile was one look of sheer, unadulterated, pure terror. I barely got to even see that before his muted scream was silenced as it pierced his skin and shed him completely into non-existence. A fate even I, as a career, wouldn't wish upon anyone. To me, this type of death is crude, dishonorable, and downright disgusting.

The bombs begin to fall again and I lurch myself downwards into the trenches, getting my boots caked with sloppy mud. Already I feel the ground shaking as more and more bombs fall in rapid succession. The lull from before replaced with an even more deafening screech as they impacted hard onto their target. So, as I start sprinting around the trenches, trying to find my way to the cornucopia, I can already begin to feel a ringing within my ears. Twisting around a corner I careen into another tribute, my arms immediately shooting out in front of me to take them down before they can do so to me. However, as I wrap my arms around their shoulders a bomb hits a mere foot away, causing both myself and the other tribute to slam into opposite walls.

I immediately feel pain radiating from my collarbone and no matter what I do I can't seem to catch my breath. Already I can see the person who I ran into scrambling up a ladder, Galla Cinder. Is she fucking suicidal?! I watch for a second to see her trying to get around the shadows that the bombs give before impact. She was one fucking crazy little shit I'll give her that, she was even doing a decent job. As I begin to run in her direction, as her goal was to get to the cornucopia just like me, I see another explosion come bursting out from ground and hear a scream flying out into the air. Not only were there bombs falling to the ground, but there were also landmines to back them up. Others may have thought it was cowardly to jump down in the trenches, but I was grateful at that moment that I went with the more calculated route, despite the odds of running into others is increased by doing so.

'Come on Canicus, get your shit together. You have to move.'

The disorientation that follows my next steps surprises me. Explosion after explosion after explosion bombards all of my senses like an annoying mantra. And it does not help that I can taste blood on my tongue. Now whether it was from me or from Edrick I will never know and seriously, I didn't feel too keen on finding out. The ground shaking beneath the sloppy mud below is unforgiving. It feels as if I'm walking through quicksand or cement as I continue to forge ahead towards the cornucopia. However, each step I take seems way too sluggish and right now, I cannot afford to be sluggish in any fashion. It could, no, it would mean my death and quite frankly I wasn't ready to die just yet. I had things to do still, people to see, people to hunt, and people to kill.

Sliding around the corner I come upon the sight of the massive golden structure. But before I can get my bearings and keep moving I'm being shot upon from above by a rain of bullets. As I fling myself back around the corner from where I came from I do my best to not cry out as a few of them graze my ribs and arms. Twisting my head upwards to try and see the source I see actual people up in these metal spire like turrets. Their surfaces are shining from the dripping rain. And upon each side there was a large metal gun attached to them. Damn, the gamemakers really went all out this year. This really isn't my fucking day.

I realize that I have two options. The first, find another way through this damn maze of a battleground to reach the Cornucopia. Unfortunately I do not have that kind of time and I'd rather keep the interactions with others to a minimal. Plus, I need a weapon, and fast. While yes, I can use my hands, I want my knives. Once I have my knives that's when I really can come out and play. So, that really only leaves the second option, running through the rain of bullets and climbing upwards. The downside would be bodily harm and possible death if any of those bullets hit vital organs. Neither option is really preferred, but shit, I don't have many options right now. This day is just getting fucking better, I swear...

Movement in my peripheral vision gains my attention. When I turn my gaze to regard it I find the girl tribute from five already climbing up the cornucopia. Shit, she is going to become a threat if she keeps climbing like a monkey. Through the rain I watch her make her way upwards towards the mouth, her muscles seemingly strained with the necessary strength required to make it to the top. A part of me wants her to fall. She needs to fall. And I need to make up my damn mind quickly on which way to go. Time is seriously of the essence, or lack thereof. This is especially true when one particular bomb goes off, cutting off my other means of direction. Which leaves the least entertaining option, running through the rain of bullets. Shit.

I hear a yell above me and my head tilts upwards to look at Atalanta again. She made it to the top and is now gazing downwards into the golden mouth. She looks upset and about ready to spring and a part of me wonders why. The chance to find out, however, was short lived. Like an owl who can twist it's head nearly three hundred and sixty degrees the guns hone in on Atalanta. She barely has any time to react before they go off and she's falling off, letting go of the cornucopia rim so her descent is faster. She will no doubt sustain injuries from that fall. But I really do not care at this moment. I have a window of opportunity, no matter how short, to get to my destination without getting shot upon.

My boots slip in the mud as I charge forward, my intent clear and my location decided. I will make it there whether anyone else likes it or not. Now just how quickly I can get there with the minimal amount of bodily harm is anyone's guess. The turrets turn towards me almost immediately, the guns revving up again to shoot me down. It is by some miracle that I don't halt and turn back, the fight or flight response pressing itself against the forefront of my mind. No, I will not turn back. So close to my goal, so close. And I don't pay any mind to the bullets coming my way. Never paying any heed to the metal grazing my skin, cutting it open and bringing blood bubbling to the surface. I am there; I am here; I will climb up this ladder to the slippery grass and climb upwards to find my prize. It was like a homing beacon overcoming my senses, numbing them so that the stinging pain of rain and bullets did little to change my decision.

I fling myself against the side of the golden structure my arms immediately reaching out and grabbing whatever foothold I can find. The rain making this task more difficult than it has to be. Bullets ricochet off the middle with a loud ring, most are missing my body and I wonder if this was being done on purpose as I climb. I am an easy target. I know this. I know this well. So it is only logical to think that missing me is intentional. I can feel my muscles straining as I pull myself upwards; no amount of training, previous or otherwise, could have ever prepared me for this day. Sure, back home we trained in the rain, but not to this extent. The effort I am having to exude to just stay on and not slip off is rather astounding. The shooting stalls as I reach the top, their attention turned elsewhere. My award is at hand, just a few inches away.

But when I gaze into the mouth, a dark smirk on my face at the thought of finally having something worthwhile to kill with, I falter. There is nothing within the cornucopia, absolutely nothing. No food, no clothing, no weaponry, nothing but the rain water pooling at the bottom. My mind was like a ticking time bomb about to go off. No. No! There has to be something in here! The gamemakers wouldn't make things that difficult! There's no way! My mind is whirling in a cluster of emotions ranging from panic to, most importantly, anger. My job just got a hell of alot harder than it ever has to be. I do not have any extension of myself, nothing. And its extremely disconcerting which only proves to piss me off even more. I don't like feeling that I have zero control. I don't like having to use my bare hands but apparently that's all I'm left with! It infuriates me to no fucking end. The gamemakers want a show? I'll give them a fucking show.

A snarl passes through my lips as I flip myself around to stare at the turret with the two unnamed people manning the guns, their barrels training on me about ready to fire. I can hear them revving them up for another round. But I don't care. Let them come at me with everything they've got. They won't be alive for much longer. I'll take their guns and use them instead. Let's see if the gamemakers thought that would happen. If not, well, a new angle to these games will have just been brought upon the others. I will take them down so fast nobody will ever question my abilities or my intentions again. All doubt from the other careers would perish. It is this thought that pushes me over the edge and causes me to jump across onto the turret. Almost immediately there are shouts from my prey, my victims as they try to turn their guns further to try and attack me close at hand. But they can't. They know if they shoot within this confined space they'll hit each other.

One of them comes at me with full force as I jump into their space. His eyes dangerous, black as night, his mouth curled into a snarl not unlike my own. I feel almost feral as I grip the guys shoulders as he slams into me, pushing us back against the wall. It's almost like he's trying to fling me over the side and to the ground below, like he's intending on me breaking my back upon impact. But that's not going to happen. I won't let it happen. My muscles bunch up as I push back against him, my right arm coming down to punch him in the ribs hard. The man groans in pain as I do so and his fist hits my face. The stinging leads to immediate throbbing in my cheekbone and I punch the guy with all the strength I can muster. There is a sickening crack and we both know I've broken a few ribs. Caught off guard his hold on me loosens. Before the other guy can get involved I've gripped my attacker in a choke hold, cutting off his airway, and within seconds I snap my hands in one direction, breaking his neck. Death is instantaneous.

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as my next victim and I stare each other down. His eyes hold mine, or rather mine have his in a sickening choke hold not unlike my first victims cause of death. But no, he isn't going to die like that. I have many other ways of killing people. I just have to dive behind him first and grab something. It will be useful later. But I first have to initiate it through spilling blood. Blood that will be coming from this piece of meat in front of me. And he knows it. I can almost smell the fear radiating off of his body in waves. The thought sends a jolt of excitement through my body.

Taking a threatening step forwards the guy takes a step back and I'm quite sure he has zero idea what to do with himself now that his partner is dead. Little does he understand that the gamemakers signed his death warrant and I am going to be his executioner. Another step forward rewards me with another step back. A game of cat and mouse and I certainly am not a tiny little mouse, oh no. There is a loud crack of thunder over our heads illuminating the arena and our stand off; it catches the man off guard, if his jump is any indication. Within seconds I've dived for a piece of metal laying on the floor, about the size of my palm, and swiped the feet out from under my target. He cries out in both surprise and pain on impact, but he has no more time to react. I've already pinned him down, an incredibly sinister smile on my mouth.

His fear is profound, his eyes never leaving mine, a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. He knows I've caught him, ensnared him. He knows he's going to die, slowly and very much painfully. I click my tongue and drag the sharp metal lightly across his face, starting with his forehead. His lips move, trying to form syllables to make words. But there is nothing forthcoming. His fear is gripping him too tightly. Maybe he is trying to beg for his life. Maybe the gamemakers promised him riches beyond his wildest dreams should he give us more trouble than we already have being here. But it all hinges upon his survival. And his survival is now coming to a quick end.

When he begins begging for his life I frown, not liking the weakness he is showing. Nor did I like the fact that he was opening his mouth at all to beg. No matter, I will fix that very quickly. On my next go around his face I dig harder and his skin immediately begins to split. His cries fall upon deaf ears as I continue, shaping my masterpiece on my canvas, his blood as my paint. Eyes become glassy, his cries becoming more and more shrill, more and more annoying. It is time to end this game. I have other games to play with people. Pinning his arms down with my feet I slice his neck in one single stroke. Blood pours immediately, a large puddle beginning to form under him. Standing, I let him go and watch him grab his neck, not that it matters, I've cut all major arteries, a cool look of indifference on my face as he crawls away from me. Now that he is out of the way I can begin working on more important matters, like getting these guns off and ready to play with.

Slipping the bloody metal piece into my pants pocket I began fiddling with the hooks holding the guns in place. Where the ammo comes from I couldn't tell yet, but I know it isn't empty. I stop for a moment to take a good look at the arena we were thrown into, gauging just how much time I have left before the bloodbath is over. I know its not much, and low and behold I don't need the other careers getting any ideas, so I opt to quicken my pace and get this shit done. Unfortunately, no matter what I do, the guns won't budge, and it bothers me. I don't want to leave something that is useful behind, especially since there is absolutely nothing in the cornucopia. Suddenly I hear a beeping noise and I'm unsure as to where its coming from. I turn around to face the guy who's throat I slashed, only to find him dead as a doornail. So where...my eyes catch on to the lights flashing in the corners. Oh shit, this place was about to go down.

I jump over the edge and begin my descent quickly downwards, the rain pelting my form again chilling me to the bone. The rain is coming down harder now, harder than before if that was even possible. But the bombs have stopped falling. The beeping gets louder and more frequent before it stops completely. I stop in my descent for a moment to look up in confusion. Why would- The following explosion shook the entire arena, or that's what I felt at least. A large fire cloud ascends into the sky before the spire began to collapse in on itself. Knowing that I am going to be buried in the rubble if I didn't let go I jumped off. Another loud explosion goes off and I am flown backwards even further, landing on my back hard as metal flies in all directions. I barely have enough time to cover my face before metal starts imbedding itself in the grass. Unfortunately one piece gets a little too close for comfort and I immediately feel the sting as it just barely grazes over my left eye vertically, warm blood falling down my cheek.

"Fuck," I call out and bring my hand up to try and assess the damage.

Luckily it isn't so bad that I couldn't see at all, but the blood running down my face getting in my eye was rather painful. I swipe away what blood I can as best I can before standing and taking a look at the rubble that now lay before me. Well, there goes the idea of having yet another weapon in my grasp. Actually, I still have that piece of metal in my pocket, so maybe not everything is going to hell in a handbasket...maybe. I have to find the other careers now and take care of some...unfinished business involving a certain thorn in my side from District Four. That little fucker is going to meet his maker for trying to stage his own alliance behind my back. And I have to thank Aleah for giving me that piece of information. As much as I don't like her or Sean, I don't like blatant insubordination even more. Five careers instead of six is not that much of a difference.

Nor can I ignore the fact that keeping Con alive is too much of a risk.

My eyes scan the trenches below me, searching for him; he couldn't have gotten too far in this short span of time. Not with all the chaos surrounding us. I grip the jagged piece of metal rather tightly as I do so, not surprised at all if its cutting into the palm of my hand. Quite frankly I really don't give a damn at this point. Movement just a little north catches my attention immediately, the familiar bob of hair that I've grown to dislike immensely as he runs in the mud. I allow my eyes to narrow in on him before taking off towards his location. Within seconds I'm almost right upon him, foregoing the ladder and jumping down in front, cutting him off and halting any forward advancement.

"Hello there Con," I say cooly, no trace of anger in my voice, "going somewhere?"

Con slides to a halt before he can run into me, his eyes locking on my own almost in what seems to be surprise, "Ah've been tryin' to find you."

I tilt my head to the side in mock curiousness, "Oh? Are you sure? It seems like you're trying run away from where everyone else has been running to."

He swallows thickly and I resist the urge to smirk at him. A bead of sweat rolls down his chin before dropping into the muddy ground below us. He knows that I know something. He's just not sure what yet. But alas I'm not feeling very forgiving at the current moment. I'm having a bit too much fun playing with him, watching him sweat this confrontation out.

"Ah'm not quite sure what you're talkin' about."

"No? Really?" I take a step towards him and he takes a step back, unsure of my intent, but I know that my intent is quite clear, "if you were trying to find us you wouldn't be running towards the cornucopia. You've had plenty of time to discover that there is nothing inside. So really, what else am I supposed to think?"

It's time to end this game soon. The others are no doubt looking for me.

"There you guys are! We've been looking everywhere for you!"

Con and I look up to find Sade and Roulla looking down on us. They don't look too beaten up but they certainly look like drowned rats. It's not terribly surprising, but I fight down the urge to make a comment about it. I'm sure I look just as bad as they do if not worse since I survived that damn explosion. The wound on my eye still stings like a bitch too; no doubt we will need to find a water source to take care of any possible infection. But first I have to gather the rest of us and take care of this Con issue. I know that if I do not act now and solidify my leadership in an absolute manner this alliance would fall apart quicker than last years alliance did. So, Con will become my example. And I will enjoy this greatly.

"Ugh, I hate this place already. It's too wet and I broke my nails!"

And there is Admire in all her prissy glory. Now, the question is, where is Jet?

"The cornucopia is going to be useless to us this year," Sade notes out loud and I nod.

"That's why we'll make our own weaponry," Jet speaks out from nowhere, "there's plenty of metal scraps lying about."

All of us turn to look at him standing on the grass next to Admire above Con and I. Damn, he moves insanely quietly and I wonder just how long he's been standing there. But I know he speaks the truth. Admire looks almost scandalized at being next to him too. I don't think she noticed him either until he opened his mouth to speak. Maybe it unnerved her or something. Either way it goes, it's time to end this game with Con now that everyone is here. I regard Con against just as coolly as before, but the tension starts to rise even quicker that it did initially. The three girls exchange glances, probably wondering why I have not spoken or gotten out of the trench. Jet just stares, silently watching us like only he can.

"What's going on Canicus," Admire finally voices out loud sounding bored out of her mind and exasperated.

"You should ask Con this question," I answer her finally, "he's the one playing games."

"Ah'm still not sure what you're talking about," the boy replies hotly.

"What is Canicus talking about Con?" Sade demands, her eyes flashing.

The tension between us all rises a few more degrees. No doubt the people of the capitol are glued to their screens wondering what's going to happen next.

"You should answer her," I speak again, "You should tell everyone what your plan has been all this time."

"There's been no-"

"Quit lying through your teeth!" I suddenly yell out with a dark glare on my face as I begin to pull out the shrapnel from my pocket, "If you think creating another alliance behind our backs wouldn't be found out and then taken back to me you are sorely mistaken."

There is a pause where nobody says anything. I watch as Jet, Admire, Roulla, and Sade all look down at Con who seems to be ready to bolt. My instinct is to just kill him now and get us to the safety of the trees. But Con will absolutely not be coming with us. His time in these games are over. The tension grows even thicker than it already is if that's even possible.

"I don't take kindly to insubordination Con," I sneer finally pulling the bloody instrument of his demise out into the open, "You've played your hand and lost."

Con backs up a few steps with his hands held up in a surrender like way, "Canicus, friend, Ah was only tryin' to help you come up with a stronger alliance. We can work this out."

I advance on him like a feral wolf getting ready to pounce, which isn't too far from the truth, "No, you were only trying to help yourself."

He looks up to the others who only look down at him in disappointment and betrayal. The moron really has fucked this up and now he's paying for it. He goes to turn and run but slips in the mud and crashes down to the ground, creating a huge splash that covers my boots. I watch him scramble to his feet and begin walking backwards, his eyes wide, skin pale as a ghost.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Con freezes in place, his chest heaving. Behind him stands Admire, her eyes bright and full of malice. I stop to watch her for a moment, my eyes narrowing as she smirks at me. The kill is mine, not hers.

"Admire," I warn but she pays me no heed.

"Tsk, tsk," she speaks close to his ear, "You should know not to play your cards all at once," she suddenly wraps her belt around his neck tightly cutting off his airway, "It ruins the fun."

Con immediately starts to struggle, his eyes bulging out of his head as he claws at the leather strap. Admire swipes his feet out from under him, making the moron fall to his knees. She pulls him back by the neck, each time another notch in the belt is tightened. The others watch indifferent and I look on pissed off. That kill was mine, not hers. However I knew I hadn't given any order for her not to attack him so it wasn't like she wasn't following any orders. Her smirk is devilish, her fingers white from gripping the belt so tightly. Con's face turns red and then purple, his screams mute as saliva collects at the corners of his mouths. But soon, his struggling begins to cease, his eyes roll towards the back of his head as his life is taken from him. And when his eyes close completely and goes limp Admire pulls the belt away and steps back, her smirk never wavering.

Admire and I stare each other down. She knows I'm pissed off. I know she's done this on purpose, purposefully taken my kill from me. Her and I were playing our own game between each other. And right now she's played her first hand and won. Now I have to come up with something even better. I won't loathe the moment when her death comes. Sauntering away from me she climbs up the nearby ladder to stand beside Sade and Roulla and I watch Jet jump over the gap to join them as well. I follow suit and come up to the grass. The rain and bombs have stopped, no sound echos anywhere. No doubt everyone else has gotten away.

"Where to now?" Roulla asks as I wipe my hands on my pants.

"We head into the trees, find a decent place to set up camp, create whatever weapons are possible, and begin looking for other tributes," I reply before turning to Jet, "and you will lead that hunt."

Jet looks at me intently and I'm not sure exactly what's running through his head. So I keep my face neutral. After a moment's pause he nods and we begin to move towards the nearby forest. Five of us instead of six. Even less people worry about for this alliance and that thought is actually somewhat comforting. Right at the edge of the forest we begin hearing the loud boom of the cannon going off, signalling to us just how many have died in this short span of time. And we all pause to listen.

_Boom_

_Boom_

_Boom_

_Boom_

Four of us are already dead. One of them being the moron named Con. It is a small amount to start off with, but I know that soon the head count will start to rise. Right before the shadows of the trees engulf me I look back one more time to stare at the cornucopia. The gamemakers are certainly up to something with this years games. I'm just not sure what that is yet. But we'll all learn in due time. For the games are just beginning.


	45. List of the Dead

No updates on Thursday for American Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving!

**_Phoenix Aerona Snow, Gamemaker_**

**_by Phoenix Refrain_**

* * *

**_Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day...__  
__I am the broken wax seal on my lover's letters.__  
__I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.__  
__I will what I will_**

**_Egyptian Book of the Dead._**

* * *

Crimson.

The beauty of it mesmerizes me and whets my appetite. I touch it to my lips, smoothing it over them and relishing in the colour of it—in the feel of it moving over the tender skin there. I rub my lips together, smearing the colour around.

Crimson…

It reminds me of so many things…it reminds me of blood.

I roll the lipstick down in the tube and look at my reflection in the mirror. I'll have to let the makers know that I'm happy with the custom colour they've made me. How well they mimicked the wet, but drying blood of the tributes I asked for. It's something I like to revel in—it's a job well done.

For a moment, I sit there in my dress that matches my lipstick perfectly. I stare into the mirror and I'm taken back into memories more precious because they are a secret that only Belles and I share. I can see the blood specks still on my face, just like that night when we were sixteen and twelve.

_I pull on the black shirt and black pants after taking off all my jewelry as Belles does the same. For a moment, I look at her and I cup her young face in my hand. "Are you sure, you can do this?"_

_She lifts her chin, her eyes shining brightly. "Yes, we have to do this."_

_I can't help but smile at her, so confident and so sure. We've talked about it so long, but now we're finally going to do it. We're finally going to cut out the cancer that's been gnawing on us all these years._

_I reach under the mattress and pull out the long thin dagger. It's exotic, twisted with roses and inset with rubies—A gift from a former lover. I pull out another dagger, the twin of this one and hand it to Belles, taking her hand. We will do this together like we do everything._

_On silent feet, we creep down the hall. Each breath seems so loud and my heart is thundering in my chest. It is not out of fear that my heart races or the adrenaline pumps through my body, but because of the hot tingling excitement that creeps through my body threatening to cloud my vision. It's finally going to happen._

_I push the door open to their room, and I see them sleeping almost sweetly. My hand slips from Belles as we each take our place on each side of the bed of her parents. I glance down at our mother who betrayed my father and married his best friend. They created my sister—whom I love, but the betrayal of having gotten over him so quickly…of the rumours I heard that she'd been with him while my father still lived…my fingers itch to plunge the dagger into her heart._

_And there my sister stands, blade poised over her father's chest. She loved him once, I think. But her love for me was greater…The injustices of the Districts were greater even than her love for her father. She was the apple of his eye—and maybe that's why that love of hers was actually a cover for the hate she felt toward him, that he didn't love me like his own._

_I don't' question her motives nor does she question mine. We have planned this perfect murder for years. The time to act is tonight._

_She looks to me for the signal and I nod my head briefly, and our daggers descend into our targets. I plunge the dagger into our mother's chest three times as she struggles. The fear and betrayal in her eyes is bright, but she should have known what we were…what we would do to her. _

_She tries to scream, but I push the pillow over her face and plunge the knife again and again into her body as she tries to claw at me. But her arms grow weaker, feebly trying to catch a hold of me. I wait for a moment, relishing in the way her movements slow before driving the dagger through the pillow into her skull._

_I can feel the blood coating my arms, soaking through my clothes. I can feel it smeared across my face, I can taste the iron of it in my mouth when I lick my lips without thought. But I brush it aside and glance to Belles, she's straddling her father—chest heaving and the dagger resting in his gut still. There's blood pooling from his mouth but his eyes are dead. _

_I pull her to me, despite all the blood and gore. I press her to me, and kiss her forehead. "Are you hurt?" My voice holds anxiety for her, for the only thing I love in this world._

"_I'm fine," she breathes it out. Her voice is calm and even, "Just a little scared for the next part." _

_I pull away from her and look her in the face, "Me too. But we're going to be alright." _

_I take her hand, careful to take off our shoes to walk down the hall. I lead her to the bathroom where she undresses and hands me her clothes before getting in the shower, "Be quick," I whisper as I begin to shed my own clothes. I pick up the pile and take it to the incinerator._

_Belles father is—was—high up and had an incinerator built in our home so that he could destroy anything. And now, we would use it to destroy the evidence of us murdering them. I throw the piles of clothes and the boots in there and watch as they burn up with the intense heat of it. _

_Crossing my arms across my bare body I head back up to the shower. Belles is out, her hair dry and neat and her eyes wide as she pulls on her sleeping clothes, "Did you get rid of them?"_

_I nod my head, but pull back from her when she comes to hug me. "No, you're clean. You can't touch me like this. Go to bed. When you wake up, you remember what to say, okay?"_

_She nods her head, and starts to leave the room, pausing at the door. "I love you," she whispers._

"_I love you, too."_

_I hurry through the shower, scrubbing every inch of my body free of blood and grime. I make sure the water is hot because it makes me feel safer about getting rid of evidence. _

_The whole time from killing them to my getting dressed in a nightgown after disposing of the clothes could only have been ten minutes. We only have a window of fifteen. I hurry down the hall and into Belle's room. She's lying there, her eyes closed._

_I know she's not asleep, but I pretend she is—it'll make this easier. I stand over her a moment until I'm certain of where to stab. I sink the blade in to her shoulder, to her chest and her stomach. She bites back the screams. And all I can say is "Sorry," because this is the only way we won't be suspected._

_I rush down the hall with the other knife and lie in my bed. I don't hesitate as I plunge the knife in to my chest twice. It's already harder to breathe, painful even. I feel the blood spatter up on my face. I remove the knife and plunge it into my stomach four times before I let go of it._

_And this is the final part, the hardest part._

_I pull myself to my feet and lurch across my room into the door. Bloody handprints are smeared there. I slip and slide down the hall, my feet coming out from under me as I fall on my side. I drag myself down the hallway, and for a moment I wonder if I'm going to die. If I miscalculated._

_But then I see the panic button, and my fingers slam into it. The next moment, the sound of alarms start going off all around me and fill my head with their shrill cries. I struggle to keep consciousness, a bit afraid what will happen if I succumb to the darkness._

_I can hear their thundering steps, the shouts of help. I see the young medic putting oxygen over my face, "You're going to be fine, Miss. You're going to be fine."_

And we were fine. When I woke up, they had been buried. Belles was recovering better than I. Her face was pale, but she was well. Her body polished of all those scars, and mine too. No one ever suspected. No one ever knew.

I feel my fingers float down between my breasts, in the plunging neckline. Sometimes, I almost think I can see the scar there—but it's gone, smoothed away as if it didn't happen. But it did, and I'll always remember it—our _first_ murder. The rest were so much easier to do.

I look at the list of names again. I remember watching them in their training scores. Londyn was a perfect pick. She wasn't important in and of herself, but the girl—Roulla…well, we knew that she'd be undeniably attracted to Londyn because she looked like her beloved Yiri. It was fun to play with her emotions—especially when Londyn was found to be lethal. I'd never thought I'd see the day when a blind girl would impress me so much, but she had when she speared the wings of butterflies in her private session.

Aleah's brother, of course, was selected because of her indiscretions. She wanted to cross us, well we were going to give her a taste of her own medicine. The rules were simple, just like the arena there is only one. But here the rule is easier, obey everything we say or suffer the consequences.

It didn't matter that Sean Armani had no votes at all, things like that could be fixed. It didn't matter that Con wanted in the games and that we allowed the bribe to go through. None of it really matters. Some of them were by chance like Canicus and Admire—where so many good choices were, but others like Londyn and Roulla had the odds tipped in their favour. Then there were those that we wanted like Lucian and Brennadon, but there was no worry or doubt they'd be chosen. Eric was just a happy circumstance—perfectly set up by Sade's uncle, which in turn assured she'd be there.

All of them fitting together so perfectly that we might as well have actually chosen them all. Each of them deserving to be there for some reason or another—by my vengeance or their own district. In some ways, I admire them more—like that boy Jonas. If he won…he'd come to hate them as much as I. He might be a worthy pawn if he survives.

Sean though…He'd be a good piece of meat in the Capitol. The prices were high already for his sister, who'd finally decided to give it up to keep him alive. If we allowed him to come home, and it was appealing to me—we could have a matching set. The people of the Capitol did have some…odd tastes. But even if we lost him, we'd still keep her in line. But what a pair they could be…and assuring him that undeserving 10 promised he'd be a target and that Aleah would be forced to comply with our wishes.

Maybe she understands that now when she got that little note. _"Edrick Quillheart was a warning to the Districts that it is by our mercy alone that we don't kill all twenty-four tributes. But for you, Aleah it means much more. He is a warning to you, wouldn't it be a pity if another missile found Sean? This is your only warning, Aleah."_

They hadn't been ready for the battlefield, and I watched them all stained with blood before they left it. Lucian found his niche and killed the pretty little Bianca while Canicus' kill was stolen by his adversary Admire strangling him with her belt. Even the careers were having their little problems, getting rid of traitors to begin with. Canicus certainly knew how to keep his house in order. If he could exert any measure of control over Jet…Like letting a pet lion off of a chain, so that he could torture the little mouse by drowning him in the mud.

They were finally free in the arena, and they were already a bit terrified in some way. No weapons, no food, and no standing water. But there are so many more things they should be afraid of—I'm not done twisting and warping them yet. War is hell, and they have yet to experience it truly.

They don't understand that it's not going to be so easy or short this year. We'll push them together and pry them apart. We'll watch as they froth at the mouth eager to get at each other and end this—but we'll hold them apart and let their wounds and minds fester. We'll make it hard for them to kill each other, just to make the whole ordeal last longer—so that the winner will suffer through nightmares for the rest of their terrible existence.

I feel the smile creeping up on my face as I slip on my heels. I bring out the blades lying on my vanity and them into a box, calling for an attendant. I attach the small note and hand over the box, "Make sure this gift makes it to the appropriate tribute."

He backs out of the room, confused by my doing. It will be the first time those blades have ever been out of my possession.

I look at the list of tributes again, my mind lingering on one name. One who had no hope to escape this, to escape the wrath I'd been planning for years. I would make sure that this one suffered far more than any other for what was done to me.

I toss the paper into the fire and watch as the flames curl it into ashes.

…

I'm greeted at the President's mansion by an Avox who takes my coat. For a moment, I look at him keenly—he reminds me of the Avox that "killed" my husband's parents. I flash a smile so wide that the Avox backs away in fear. He backs away just like Vesperus' parents did before I hacked their bodies to pieces and framed the frightened Avox. It was easy then to console Vesperus, to get him into bed and seduce him into loving me.

I glide by him and shake off my black coat as I move about the room. People stop me here and there and ask about Coriolonus or my plans for the games. I'm friendly but discreet—a façade I have to keep up with these boring people. But my eyes fall on her, and I hurry towards her like a moth to a flame.

I envelope Belles in my arms and squeeze her hand excitedly as I back away, "You look gorgeous, Belles."

She smirks, "Don't tell lies Phe." She blushes softly, "I want you to meet Evered Finn."

President Finn's son, just like we planned. "So you're what's been keeping my sister out late and all distracted and love-sick?"

Evered smiles and ducks his head, "I'm afraid I'm guilty as charged. I do hope that you don't mind me stealing her away from you some?"

"I don't mind at all," I smile then motion that I'm going to get a drink. The simple truth of it is—I'd mind if it wasn't happening. All these years of planning, the way we made it so they'd meet. The way she's had to curb how she acts to make him fall for her.

I glance back with a glass of red wine in hand as I saunter back to them. Belles wiggles her finger gently. She thinks he's going to propose soon, which means our first step to overtaking the President is in action. What better way to destroy Finn than by the inside out?


	46. A New Friend

**Sorry about the delay. I was dealing with some pain and some medical emergencies for my dog. Everything is okay now, but things were stressful and internet was being horrid. So please forgive me. Right now I'm the only one updating this so it all weighs on me. I will be asking someone to step up with me next game more than likely, but I will not be doing it in the middle of this game. So things will run smoother next time.**

**That being said, I have to have surgery Wednesday. I'm going to try to arrange for the Thursday update to be on time if I'm still drugged. THey're fixing a pinched ulna nerve and carpal tunnel.**

**Sorry for the wait. THe next update should be Tuesday!**

**EDIT: LIST AT THE BOTTOM thanks to Jgrayz!**

* * *

**Jet Matthews, District Two**

**By LoveIsBlindness**

* * *

"_The battlefield is a scene of constant chaos. The winner will be the one who controls that chaos, both his own and the enemies."_

_~Napoleon Bonaparte_

* * *

A roar of a plane rockets over our heads as we clamour over fallen trees. The sky is murky with dark, menacing clouds and casts off an ominous feel. I gaze up at the canopy, slowly turning on the ground as a cold wind works its way through the branches and leaves of dead trees. Skeletal branches loom above our heads, bare and vast without leaves clinging to them, the tips reaching out as if to rake through our ragged Arena clothes as we walk through thin tree trunks. A cold chill lingers on my exposed skin, making me involuntarily shiver and forcing goosebumps to rise.

There is no trace of a sun in the midst of clouds, no trace of life in these dead trees. There is no hint of live opponents around, except the living Careers left. There are no Tributes in sight. I _need_ a Tribute. I _have_ to feel the blood pulsing relentlessly through the veins and arteries in the throat. I need to feel the bones snapping beneath my bare hands… But first, I have to find somebody. Anybody.

Drops of water leak towards the muddy ground from the branches, dew collecting in the dying leaves still left on the trees. There is plenty of water around. That is something we don't need to add to the list of things to worry over.

"_What a beautiful day!"_ a voice cries out in joy inside my head. I tilt my head to one side, trying to recall this voice. I don't recognize it; in fact I think I never heard this voice before. It has a soft, slightly husky tone with a high-pitched volume.

"Who are you?" I whisper, blatantly ignoring the strange looks the other Careers are giving me.

"_Who are you?"_ the voice mocks in a sweet, sugary voice. _"Who are you? Who are you?"_

"Answer me," I hiss, more fiercely this time. My jaw stiffens in apprehension, anger is etched across my face; lines surround my eyes and mouth. For a flashing second, fear consumes me as I dread what the voice would say in response, as I know what these voices can do to me- they can torture me with chants, threats and orders that I seldom ever could ignore.

"_Answer me,"_ echoes the voice, laughter tinting the words, _"Answer me."_

"Just answer me, and don't play with me!" I screech in pure anger, my hands forming into tight, tense fists. My eyes flit around me to meet the suspicious eyes of my so-called allies. First, I exchange a glowering look with Sade whose face is as grim and expressionless as ever. Her eyes look right through me like I'm nothing to her, like I'm something she doesn't have to waste her thinking over.

I growl and glance over my shoulders. Canicus Macaulay is the only one out of the others who is not casting a look at me. He's slightly strayed away from the rest of us; skulking through dead trees with an angry look in his eyes. His arms are corded with muscles, visible underneath the loose jacket, and I know there's a scar underneath there… During the recaps of the Reapings I watched on the train, I observed Canicus carefully and saw the bandage around his arm, and I knew he had a scar that he is trying to hide.

At the trenches and battlefield, I glimpsed Canicus chasing Con from District Four, however Admire got Con first, and she killed him. It was the girl with snake eyes who killed Con, not him. Not Canicus. And I know that Canicus likes the thought of taking away a life as much as I do. I know he wants to look into the eyes of a dying victim and watch as the glowing life drains away from them. So, it is for certain that Canicus is furious at Admire for taking his kill away from him.

Speaking of Admire, I look over at the girl. She is obviously good-looking, but it doesn't have any effect on me. I hadn't really thought of her during the Training Days that much, but now she is constantly at the back of my mind, increasingly getting on my nerves each day. This girl has blue snake eyes that slither over my features, looking for any trace of an answer. She's the District One female, and it is evident that she and Canicus know each other from their District and definitely don't have any affection for each other.

My eyes land onto Roulla next. Leaves crunch underneath her heavy boots as she walks in a steady, straight line, her eyes scanning the woods with uncertainty. She tentatively brushes away invisible dust on her clothes which have scarcely any mud on them. I know for a fact that she likes to be clean all the time, and that she was reasonably close to Con, so his death was a shock to her.

Roulla cranes her neck to look to the front and realizes that I'm watching her, she furrows her eyebrows together. "Is there something you want?" she asks politely in a formal gesture.

"Oh, nothing," I say, giving her a scarce, malicious smile. She frowns even deeper at my smile, pursing her lips to stop herself from saying something back to me. She breaks apart from our eye-contact.

"_That is an interesting girl,"_ says the unfamiliar voice again, filling my head with a sweet, sing-song tone.

I grunt and toy with the shrapnel in my palms, it is not really that sharp, but it will make a useful weapon. "What do you want?" I brusquely ask the voice.

"_You."_

"Me?" I say in surprise, momentarily dumb-struck.

"_Yes. You."_

"What do you mean?" A nervous sensation immediately fills me, rushing throughout me as I try to think of a reason for why she wants me.

"_Are you going to ask me who I am?"_ the voice chuckles quietly.

"I know you wouldn't tell me the answer, so why should I ask you?" I mutter under my breath.

"_I'm __Sheba__, and I'm here because I want you,"_ Sheba says in a bitter-sweet voice.

"And what do you want of me? And where is Rebecca?" I ask tentatively, suddenly feeling insecure and unsafe. It is unusual of Rebecca to not say anything during all of this, and I always feel unsafe without her.

"_I want you, because I'm only here because you're mad."_ I begin to protest, but she interrupts, _"Think about it, why am I here? Why are you hearing me? You're mad and you're the Devil's work. It's your job to kill. And if you don't kill, you'll die."_

I instantly halt the second I hear that final sentence. _If I don't kill, I'll die…_ I lower my whispering until I'm scarcely breathing words, "What do you mean? How would I die?"

"_If you don't kill like you should, the others will kill you. The ones in the arena with you. And you must please the Devil, you must slay others to give him satisfaction."_

I pause, trying to soak in what Sheba has just said. _Sheba__. Her name is __Sheba__…Like the Queen of __Sheba__._

Small hands shove me from behind, and I stumble to the ground. My hands fly out to protect me from the fall, my knees embed in the mud. I breath out and in deeply through my nostrils, attempting to calm myself down. I climb to my feet, hands stained with mud and pieces of broken leaves, and I swivel around like a lightning, fury etched across my thin, pale face. Of course, it is Sade who is right behind me with a small smirk alight on her muddy face.

"Alright, buddy?" she says in a sing-song voice.

"Why did you push me?" I demand to know in a snarl, my gaze turning into an icy, sharp glare. Animosity fills me as I drink in the features of her face, study those eyes that resemble what I remember of my mother's eyes.

"Well, you had been standing there for a while, so I had to get you moving again," she snaps back like it's obvious. She glares at me with hands perched on her hips. Hatred is aglow in her eyes.

I tighten my fist and ready myself to fly a punch squarely at her stupid face, but just a split second before I can let go, Canicus lurches forward and grabs hold of my fist; his huge hand wraps around it. I shift my piercing glare towards him, my teeth gritting in frustration. But Canicus simply returns my glare with a disdainful roll of eyes.

"Don't be silly, you two. We can't start a fight out here," he murmurs quietly but threateningly. "We're hunting, aren't we? So we need to stop this nonsense."

"_He's right. We need to be as silent as wolves in the dark,"_ Sheba tells me.

A grimace graces my face, however I nod willingly and pull away, turning around and marching ahead of the others yet again. I sneer down at the smear of mud on my hands, the touch of the mud on my skin makes my skin crawl; there's something about dirt I hate, I loath. It's like having lizards slithering all over you, the scales wet and glossy with mud.

The merest thought of lizards forces me to urgently brush away the dirt that coat my skin in a flimsy sheen with the sleeves of my brittle jacket. My jaw is clenched as I scrub the dirt off.

I abruptly stop scrubbing, eventually realizing what I was doing. I stare down at my spread-out palms with skepticism. _What the hell was I doing?_ I never had a problem with dirt before. But now that I'm in the arena, dirt is like a plague to me, a virus I have to avoid. _Would I be like that with blood? No, no, no, please, no._

Smearing blood all over me had always filled me with an intense passion and joy, but what if I would react to it like I just reacted to dirt? This cannot be happening… I'm alright, I'm sane, I'm alright, I'm sane…

"_You're not sane."_

I snap my teeth together, the sound of teeth grinding together fill my ears agonizingly. I roll my eyes upwards until they are inside my skull and the whites of my eyeballs are showing. Momentarily, I stagger like a drunken man in the dark. There are muffled voices coming from behind, but I can't hear them, the voice taunting me inside my head is shouting over them.

"_You're not sane. You're not sane. You're not sane. You're not sane!"_ bellows the maliciously evil Sheba. The way she is over-powering my mind is like she is now the new commander of my brain and body. It's as if I simply cannot control my own body. She's using me like a puppet on loose strings.

And she's driving me to the brink of sanity.

No matter how I try to quell her voice, she is still as prominent in my head as the rhythm beat of my heart in my chest. I shake my head to one side and to the other, attempting to shove her out of my head.

_What if I_am _wrong in the head? What if Rebecca never existed? Did I actually make her up?_

"SHUT UP!"

The mocking taunts abruptly crease to an end, leaving threads of contempt behind. She has left me alone, finally. I ball up my hands, vaguely taking notice of the nails digging sharply into my skin and breaking it, allowing blood to be free. The wind in the woods is louder than ever, the howl of it bellowing against my eardrums. There is mild whispering in the wind, whispering of long-forgotten secrets and lost hopes.

"Hey, are you alright?!"

I wearily pivot to face the familiar face. Canicus stares at me with bewilderment, but I can see slight wonder in his dark eyes. His dark locks tumble freely into his eyes, he reaches up to shove it out of the way so he could study me carefully. I know that Canicus had been interested in me since the beginning, because he always eyed me furtively before the Games, and he wanted me to converse with him privately often, especially when I said 'yes' to be in his Pack.

"Is everything okay?" Roulla asks hesitantly beside the Pack Leader. She scrutinizes me with wide, uncertain eyes. _So, she has a soft heart for the children she assumes are hurt,_I observe.

"Everything is okay." I loosen my stiff shoulders and crack a scarce smile. "Everything is okay," I repeat, mostly affirming it to myself to sooth my nerves.

"God, this is ridiculous. Canicus, do you realize that we have an insane Tribute here with us? And I just figured out that we have a lot of problems," Admire points out, flaunting an arrogant pose of her body as she holds up four fingers. "One- we are in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no idea where to go. Two- most of us aren't armed. Three- without weapons, we're utterly useless and can die if the other Tributes have weapons, even if they have no skills with the weapons. Four- we don't even know who's dead so far."

Canicus sends her a scathing glare. "No need to point out those facts, I already know. But I can handle this, so why don't you lay off me?"

She presses a grimy, but still manicured hand against her chest and laughs aloud. "Hah! You think you can handle this!? Looks like to me you haven't made any decisions to solve our problems yet. If I were the leader I would not take us into the woods and idle around like clueless kids, I would hunt around the Cornucopia for any hidden weapons or supplies," Admire interjects, the words tumbling out of her cut-up lips with passion. Vaguely, I wonder if she has planned to point all of this out to Canicus…

Canicus rolls his eyes haughtily. "We already searched the Cornucopia, you douche. And there was nothing there. Absolutely not a trace of a single blade or a water-bottle. At least a water-bottle would be useful; we could use it to bash against a head."

"What about the towers? There were people from our Districts in those towers, shooting us from up there," Admire snaps back.

"She's right," Sade pipes in, "You should listen to her, it would help you out." Canicus shoots her a menacing look, indicating that she should stay out of this.

"Yeah, why don't you listen to me?" Admire smirks derisively.

Canicus narrows his eyes until they transform into snake-like slits, he lurches forward, towering over Admire as he glares down at her. "Stop yip-yapping like a dog, I know they were shooting, but it's too late anyway."

Admire juts her chin up to meet his eyes with a stubborn manner. "Don't call me a dog, or I'll slit your throat in the dead of a night whilst you sleep peacefully."

She waves her hand dismissively as Canicus partly opens his lips to fire back at her. She makes a nasty sneer and hisses out, "But we have no weapon, how are you going to solve that?"

Without thinking, I interject, "I can make us weapons."

Canicus swirls around to face me, a dark look creasing the area around his eyes as he takes in the features of my face. Admire faces me as well, puzzlement and frustration etching into her face, however she musters up a smile which still doesn't reach her eyes. Roulla stares at me, a questioning look. It's Sade who ends the tense silence by laughing…

"You?!" she guffaws, squinting her eyes in laughter. "How can _you_ make weapons?"

"I, despite your immense surprise, can make weapons perfectly well. I know that I appear painfully plain, but there is more to me than you think. I have been trained to create my own weapons in case if something goes purely wrong in the arena," I explain matter-of-factly.

"I think that was the first time I've ever heard you say more than a couple words," comments Roulla. "If you mentioned that before, that would have been a huge help."

Stifling a laugh, a smile split across my face. "Sorry for my silence."

"No, it's okay," Canicus barks, his eyes roaming over my clothes. "So what do you need to use to make weapons?"

"I only need some thick plant that is hard to cut for binding around the blades as handles, and then I'll need a big stone to hone the knives on."

"This doesn't make sense!" Admire interrupts, her voice high and sharp like a knife cutting through butter in the dead air. "We don't even have blades, how are you going to hone them?"

The corners of my lips tip up into a crooked grin, I tuck my hand into my pocket and pull a shrapnel piece out of the pocket of my dense jacket. I hold it high in the air for everybody to see. "I collected shrapnel back at the Cornucopia, I knew they would come to use. They are twisted and deformed now, but I can tame and hone them to make them sharp and flat like a blade."

Admire blinks, speechless. My smile expands at her moment of reticence, _let the bitch think this over later._ Canicus barks out a laugh and he marches towards me, clapping a huge, calloused hand onto my bony shoulder, shaking me with his strength. Canicus most definitely has strength, something I obviously don't have.

He leans in, his heavy breath brushing against my ear. "Well done, Jet," he whispers, "I think we'll need a chat later on."

I frown, frantically jerking away from him as I drink in the words he said. _I think we need a chat later on…_

"_He means to kill you, not to have a chat with you. He doesn't like you. You cannot trust him,"_ Sheba snarls inside my head, her voice bouncing along the insides of my skull. _"He can kill you."_

"I think not," I snap, frustration lacing my voice.

Roulla raises her eyes to me, a slightly frightened look on her face. The rest are looking at me with dirty expressions, apart from Canicus, who is acting like nothing happened. The wind howls and whistles louder as Canicus lays a palm onto my shoulder, the heat of his touch making me shiver as tidal wave of coldness hits me.

"Do you know how to track as well? Have you learned how to track? If so, we need you to find Tributes for us. We need to have more kills, it would earn us sponsors. And it would be useful-" he inquires in a fast flow, a flow too fast for me. The only thing I caught was the question about tracking…

"Yes, I can track Tributes," I reply quietly.

For infinite months and months, Stone recited to me how to track down Tributes, how to hunt by exploiting the marks on trees, stones, plants and buildings. He told me many ways of tracking. By learning off him, I learned how to find tiny but significant traces, like a strand of hair, footprints, blood, fingernail scrapes and many others. To train this skill, I hunted down the animals Stone used to buy for me in the house back in District Two. It was resoundingly easy for me to investigate for any tiny, fleck of evidence.

Also, tracking down creatures was my favourite sport.

"Then can you please start tracking?" Admire huffs impatiently, rolling her eyes in bewilderment and muted anger. I nod, obeying her command, I slowly turned away from the group, facing the steep slope of the woods ahead of us.

"If you need our help, just ask," Canicus says in the background. I make a gesture, dismissing him as I skulked through the thin trees.

Suddenly, recesses of my memories return to me, long-forgotten memories of hunting, of tracking, of investigating areas. The memories hit me in a crash of knowledge and emotions, filling me with anticipation and wistfulness. Gradually, I'm lost in my own world of nothing but tiny things that appear in front of my naked eyes in these woods, I'm in a bubble of my own pleasure. I slick through the trees as silent as a deer, as bold as a lion, as sleek as a snake, as dark as shadows, and as dangerous as a deranged wolf.

The smallest of sounds surround me; the drip-drops of water on branches, the faint clash of bombs in the distance, the rustling of leaves blowing on the ground, the clattering of branches against each other as the wind batters through them. All are sounds of nature, not what I require. I need the sound of humans, apart from the Careers behind me who are trying not to disturb me, but are failing to do so.

My eyes search the trees, leaves, mud and land. But there is scarcely anything that holds the simplest of a trace. I grit my teeth in frustration. This is a lot harder than it was in Stone's house…

_How is this actually going to work?_

I begin to sprint, blood-thirstiness rushing through me as desperation takes its weight onto me. I _need_ to find a kill. It's like being a fox, the need of having to kill is too dense and heavy that you even have to search for weak lambs to slaughter.

Instantly, I halt, suddenly catching a scent.

I sniff at the air like what a dog does. It's here. There's something here… A smell of something, perhaps a human. And it's _near…_

I glance around me, looking for any prominent signs of a living person being previously here. _There!_ I lean down, staring squarely at a mark of a footprint in the center of a muddy patch of leaves. It's definitely a human. Swirling around, I eye the rest of the faint footprints, all leading the same way- to the right.

"What have you found?"

I let out a furious bark and turn onto Canicus, who is the one who interrupted my moment of sheer triumph. "What did you say?"

Canicus exhales patiently and repeats, "What have you found?"

I let out a smarmy laugh. "Are you blind or what?" I snap, jerking my thumb at the footprints on the muddy ground. "I found footprints."

Canicus squints his eyes and bends down onto his knees to survey the footprints. Momentarily, he's dumb-struck. Finally, he glances back up. "I would have never noticed these! They are so faint and not very deep."

"The eyes see everything. The eyes are the best weapon. The eyes show you what the world is. The eyes guide you through life," I recite the exact words Stone told me years ago. "Without the eyes, you would be blind. Without the eyes, you would be weak and exposed.

"And you don't have eyes if you can't see the footprints."

"Wow, what a wonderful speech about eyes," Sade jests sarcastically. Admire bursts into laughter at her measly joke. She meets my piercing eyes without batting an eye-lid, however the deeper my gaze gets the more nervous she grows. In the end, she breaks the eye-contact first.

"I do have eyes, Jet. You see, I'm not blind," Canicus says impatiently and gruffly. "Now, tell us more about these footprints."

"It's a human. And a male," I point out immediately.

"And how do you know it's a male?" Roulla asks curiously.

I give her a disbelieving look, _is she blind as well?_ "Look at them. Look at the width between them."

Roulla narrows her eyes in a skeptical behavior, and she studies the footprints again.

"_She doesn't trust you. She now knows how clever you are. Be wary of her, she could stab your back any moment,"_ Sheba murmurs with suspicion. I scoff at her words, there's no way _Roulla_ would stab me in the back, basically because Roulla is too smart and polite for that.

Canicus gazes at the marks for a long moment, realization invading his eyes. "He's right. They are too wide for a girl. What height do you think he would be?"

I examine the footprints again for a flicking second before I return my attention onto Canicus again. "He's approximately five feet tall. Also it seems that he was stumbling so he might be injured."

"An injured Tribute…" Canicus says thoughtfully and rather sadly. His eyes drift off to the tops of the tall trees surrounding us. "An injured Tribute. Too weak for me. I need a bigger and stronger kill."

The words he chose gains my full attention and I study him for a while, there's something about him that screams out danger. But also, he's ruthless and blood-thirsty like me. But he was claiming it as if the victim was going to be his to kill… That is what outrages me.

In a clear, calm voice, I begin, "Who said this victim is _your_kill? It's _mine_. I tracked this person, so he belongs to me. Do you understand?" I clench my hands, experiencing the muted pain of nails digging into skin. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Canicus narrows his eyes, and he replies in a flat tone, "I understand. It belongs to you."

_It._ He called the victim an it, like an animal. It's that which I smile over. He's just like me… Our victims are nothing but a _thing_to us.

"Can we please get moving?!" Admire scoffs to herself.

"Jet, you lead the way," Canicus commands, motioning for me to guide the way again. A flashing smile crosses my face as I lead the pack yet again. This time, I slowly follow the footprints down the right, past the trees and growing bushes with sharp thorns that latch themselves onto our clothes. The footprints seem to be getting messier and jig-jagged through the trees, this is evidence for the victim getting weaker and weaker.

Heavy panting reaches my eardrums, and I snap my head up. Almost automatically, my eyes land onto a boy leaning against a tree trunk, breathing heavily with his head bent down; his trousers are soaked through with mud and blood, sweat dripping through the locks of his long, brown hair. The way he awkwardly sits against the tree with his legs sprawled out indicates that at least one of his legs is broken…

"_Perfect,"_ purrs Sheba. _"Make him suffer."_

An insane grin lights up my entire face as I stroll towards the boy.

The boy cranes his head upwards, perhaps because he heard the crunching leaves beneath my feet. The boy gasps and whimpers.

I tilt my head to one side, my eyes flaring and as icy as a storm. I recognize the boy. His name is Bastian; he's the District Five male. I'd been watching him. He's one of the people on my kill list.

"_And he's going to be the first,"_ cackles Sheba.

I halt in my walking and stare at the victim. His eyes resemble a lamb's eyes so well that it makes me chuckle a little. The sensation of power and greed consume me. I recall this feeling from years ago when I was in control of the animals I tortured, but this sensation is much more powerful and ominous. It gushes through the streams of my blood, filling me with a need to cause this boy pain. For my initial time, I truly know that I'll be enjoying killing others in this arena…

Bastian pushes himself up to his feet agonizingly. Pain seeping his face, lines of stress and agony surround his eyes and mouth. For a moment, I allow him to run away and I just watch. He stumbles badly as he trudges through mud, dragging his left leg behind him. More blood stains his left trousers leg, dripping its way down to the hem of the trousers.

"Don't let him go!" Sade shouts out from behind me. It's apparent that the others are far behind and are slow.

_Don't worry, sweetheart, I never let my victims get away from me,_ I want to say this over my shoulder, but my tongue is tied. I'm too excited to even form a word.

And suddenly, I lurch into a sprint, charging after the weakling as he desperately tries to escape.

The mud sledges noisily underneath my pounding feet as I lunge towards Bastian. My victim is slow and vulnerable in middle of the woods; he would never get away… The closer I get to Bastian, the more deranged and free I feel. It's like I'm flying in the midst of a blue, blue sky, being free.

Once I'm behind Bastian, I slow to a walk, my smile is bigger than ever on my face that my cheeks aches slightly. I grab hold of Bastian's jacket collar and twist him around to face me. He yelps in pain, squinting his eyes tightly shut, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. His leg doesn't move properly, it just lies in an out-sprawled way.

Bastian struggles helplessly against my strong hold. He tries to wiggle out of my grasp over and over again, but never succeeds. I release an evil laugh as I watch him as he hopelessly struggles for his own life.

The boy eventually gives up fighting for his freedom, and he slumps exhausted into the mud. He stares up at me, begging me with his wide eyes, using his last shred of pure hope. But the hope dies away in his eyes when the seconds tick by, when the smile on my face never ceases.

"Please…make it quick," he whispers, his voice barely audible.

I crack a laugh, throwing my head back to the sky as the laughter rumbles throughout me. I turn my eyes back onto the lamb. "You want a _quick_ death? Hmm…I'm not sure about that. I want to make you suffer…"

Bastian's gaze turns into a glare, and to my surprise, he spits into my face.

Holding him in a vice-like grip, I brush the saliva off my face with the sleeve of my free hand. My eyes have turned into icy pits, the pale colour of them so piercing that it must scare Bastian.

I reach down to his left leg and slam my fist onto it, causing him to experience relentless agony. He screams a blood-curdling cry. Screams and screams. The screams last for a long time, until he is left rasping and croaking breathlessly, any vocal sounds fall nonexistent. Any noise he could muster up was stuck like glue inside his throat.

"Does it hurt?" I ask menacingly, leaning closer down. The tendrils of my scarlet hair drip around my face, licking at my gaunt cheekbones. My eyes flash dangerously like lightning.

It seems that as the seconds tick by, the surroundings around us suck off my ominous energy and whips up the wind, rattling the leaves on trees, whistling through branches and bushes. The sky overhead rumbles threateningly, black blots of clouds conquer the grey sky. Drizzles of rain begin to pour down.

"Just do it," Bastian begs, spittle flying from his quivering lips. His fingers tremble as they clutch my hands which are woven around his neck.

"_Make him scream again,"_ a voice cackles evilly inside my head. I obey the voice- forgetting for a moment who it is- by slipping out my shrapnel and digging it into Bastian's left arm. The boy shrieks out in pain.

Apprehension falls over his face when he realizes that I'd never give him what he only wants- a quick death. He struggles for one last time, before I dig in deeper with the shrapnel. Blood trickles down his arm and merging itself with the sloppy mud. The crimson colour swirls in the midst of muggy mud, catching my eye with satisfaction. I toss the shrapnel to one side, dismissing it as I turn my focus onto the gaping wound on his arm. I dip a skeletal finger into the jagged hole, stir a little in it, making Bastian writhe in pain. Then, I raise my finger up to my mouth, slip it through my cracked lips. Once the blood touches my tongue, a beautiful, metallic taste fills my mouth, the taste of it is so heady and intoxicating…

"Just get it over with," Admire shouts out in a slightly bored tone.

Shaking my head, I clear my thoughts away. I return my gaze to Bastian, who's staring at me with prominent disgust on his expression.

"You're disgusting. You are a monster who deserves to burn in Hell!" he screeches like a dying cat. With his last strength, he punches me squarely in my stomach, making me grunt.

That is it.

My temper consumes me, filling my bloodstream with adrenaline. White fogs paint my vision as I push the victim deep into the mud, my hands curling into claws on his shoulders, the nails digging into his skin. Bastian flails around helplessly like a mouse caught underneath a cat's paw. Wet mud creeps over his cheeks, seeping into scratches and cuts adorning his face, until eventually the puddle of mud slips into his mouth and stifles his whimpers, blocking his air-entry.

His eyes bulge out of their sockets. The look on his face almost makes me laugh in amusement, but I'm too busy in the moment to let out a chuckle. Never giving up, I press Bastian deeper and deeper into the mud, and gradually his head disappears. Bubbles come to the surface of the puddle.

I count the bubbles; count the breaths he releases.

One. Two. Three. Four…

Five.

No more bubbles surface ever again.

The cannon echoes like thunder in a storm.

I jerk the victim out of the mud. His eyes are closed, his hair soaked through, his face painted in dirty grime, his lips are open, but no breath escape them. He's dead.

The adrenaline rushing throughout me is still as strong as it was when I began to drown him. It is the exact same sensation that I experienced when I murdered my parents… It was a rush of joy. Of power and greed.

I yank out a piece of shrapnel from my pocket, a grin lighting my face. Grasping his head, I bury the shrapnel into his temple and work my way around his scalp… When the job is finished, I roughly tear the bloody scalp off Bastian's now bald and crimson head.

I hold the scalp high in the air, staring at it with admiration and interest.

"Oh my, that is so gross!" Sade's voice burst out from behind me. I crane my neck reluctantly to see the rest of the Careers watching carefully from the trees.

Sade's face is filled with a mixture of disgust and hatred, all directed at me. Admire's facial expression is similar, but instead of glaring at me, she is inspecting her fingernails with frustration- from the looks of it, one of her nails is broken and she is not pleased. Roulla's expression is indifferent and impassive, void of any emotions hinting towards how she feels about this situation.

Canicus' reaction is what nerves me the most out of them all. His eyes follow my every precise movement. And there seems to be satisfaction and a deep interest in them. The rest of his face is empty. But I know he is _watching_ me. Not watching what I'm doing like the others, but watching how I _do it_.

I climb to my feet, still panting heavily from the struggle with Bastian (I'm not very strong). The wind is still loud and whispering but this time I can vaguely hear it, because I'm too distracted in studying my trophy. The scalp in my hands is dripping with scarlet blood, the dark hairs on it are seeping with mud and blood. As I fiddle with it, I notice how strange it feels to cradle a flap of skin and hair… It just feels thick and dense, but still flexible.

"Anybody enjoy watching that fight?" I ask wryly, still vigorous from the experience.

"It was not exactly a fight, considering the boy had a broken leg and gave up on his life," Admire quips, squashing my mood back to its usual place.

"Canicus, what do we do now?" Roulla asks the leader, looking at him for guidance.

The bulky lad marches to face all of us, his face hard and calloused, his dark hair drizzling with rain and sweat. He folds his muscular arms across his chest and parts his lips open to say, "We're going to set up camp somewhere hidden. And two people will be staying up for night-watch. That'll be me and Jet."

The moon glistens luminously above our heads. Stars scatter the night-sky, filling the dead of the sky with light and sparkles. Leaves rustle softly and tentatively as if they dared to disturb us.

The wind has settled down, so there are no more howling or whispering sounds in the stuffy air. A fire crackles gently in the center of the camp we made. There are no tents, but the Careers have barely complained when they set down their jackets onto the dead leaves- although Admire kicked up a little fuss at the beginning.

Sade, Roulla and Admire all rest peacefully on the ground, eyes closed and mouths parted slightly. The only ones awake are Canicus and I.

Canicus gazes down at the embers burning in the flames. Sparks flutter out into the air as the fire hisses. If we were not Careers, we wouldn't have made a fire in the middle of the night in case any Tributes would see the smoke and ambush us. But we're the Careers, and we need to draw Tributes nearer to us so it would be easier to butcher them. Also, the other Tributes are never as ruthless and bold as us, so how could we expect them to ambush a group of skilled, talented killers?"

"_We're the killers. You and me. Not Canicus, Admire, Roulla or Sade,"_ Sheba murmurs with pride. I grit my teeth together.

I still don't trust Sheba entirely. I mean, how can I trust her if she doesn't tell me where Rebecca or Brick are? Even Hanna is not present.

"_You don't need them. You need me. You can trust me. I know what to do here."_

"How do you know that?" I breathe, barely moving my lips as the words are formed on my reluctant tongue.

"_Rebecca lied to you a lot of times. She said she would never leave you, but she left you."_ The words sound so planned, like it is her intention to hurt my pride by saying I shouldn't have trusted Rebecca. _"You can't trust Rebecca. But you can trust me. If you do what I say, you'll be safe…_

"_You'll be safe._

"_You'll be safe."_

"Shut up!" I whisper loudly. A metallic taste lingers on my tongue, making me realize I'm biting hard into my bottom lip. I let go of my lip and brush away the blood with one lick of my tongue.

At the corner of my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Canicus watching me carefully. His eyes are shadowed by his heavy fringe, so I can't see what he's thinking. I return my gaze back to the glowing fire. The flames dance across my vision, licking at the air overhead. Deep in the flames, the red colour is so deep and pure that it dazzles me for a moment…

Blood still seeps through the bottom of my pocket on my chest; the scalp never stops bleeding. At least, the feel of the blood on my clothes gives me a little reminder of what I just did, and it makes me feel proud.

As if he read my thoughts, Canicus looks up sharply and says in a low voice, "Why did you cut off the scalp?"

I meet his eyes, a lightning quick smile flash over my face. "It's a trophy."

"Yes, I figured that out," Canicus says exasperatedly. "But why the scalp? Why not a finger, an ear, an eye-ball or his tongue? Or even his entire hand? If it was me, I would've cut off his thumb…"

"The thumb is too boring," is all I say in reply.

"Whatever. But why?" he insists to know, eyes flaring. I watch his expression. His eyes are still shadowed, but the other half of his face is in the light, so I can see his broad chin and lips. His skin is dirty from all of the crawling through mud during the bloodbath, but there is a little glow to it- a glow indicating he is from District One.

"You want to know?" I whisper. My words are so hushed and inaudible so that Canicus had to lean in closer to hear it.

He nods.

"My mother was interested in the Old Histories. The histories of the world before it was all destroyed. She learned about the infinite years of a country called America which is now Panem. And she told me bed-time stories of different histories," I begin in a thoughtful tone of voice, my fingers intertwined as I enter the recesses of my memories of my childhood. "One of the stories she told me was my favourite, and it was about men who lived in the wild, running with the buffalo, carrying bows and arrows- the Native Americans. In this story, the Native Americans battled with the whites, and after their kills, they would cut off the scalps of their kills to keep them as trophies. And they would never lose the trophies because it showed how brave, how strong they were. These trophies were precious to them."

"How interesting…" Canicus murmurs. I squint my eyes at him, not sure if he is sarcastic or not. "I never heard of the Native Americans. How did your mother know they were real?"

"She read old books of the histories of America in the JusticeBuilding."

"And how did your mother have access to the JusticeBuilding?" Canicus inquires with remote curiosity.

I hesitate for a minute. "That's a good question… I have no idea."

"Was she close to the Mayor?"

"I don't…know. She never mentioned the Mayor of District Two to me." I puzzle over the question in my head, bringing back dull memories of my mother. No- I don't remember my mother talking about the Mayor…

"Do you think…?" Canicus pauses, a smile creeping along his lips.

"Think what?" I mutter, even though I suspect what he is thinking.

Canicus leans in, stretching his hands out as if to warm them beside the flames. There is mischief and a cunning look in his eyes. "What if your mother was a whore…"

It all happened in a flash. One second, I'm sitting across Canicus, then the next second I'm gripping Canicus' jacket collar with a steady, vice-like hold. He stares indifferently into my fierce, flaming eyes, and amusement flashes across his face.

"_The arrogant cock, just finish him off now. Kill him, so you don't have to deal with him later,"_ Sheba urges persistently.

I shake my head stubbornly, not trusting another word from Sheba. Slowly, I unlatch my fingers from Canicus' collar. The thick fabric is all scrunched up and creased now. Canicus smooths the fabric out in a leisurely slow manner, obviously taking his time. Eventually, his gaze flicks back up to mine, with disdain he clucks his tongue and leans back onto his elbows.

"Never ever, ever say a word about my mother…" I threaten, danger seeping into my voice as my words stab through the deadly silent air. "You don't know my mother."

Canicus remains silent for a moment, until he opens his mouth and replies, "But I'm not as oblivious as you are. How can you be blind? There's no other way your mom could have had access to the books. She must had a secret affair with the Mayor."

I involuntarily shudder. The merest mention of the Mayor sends ripples of shivers up my back and over my scalp, pricking the cold skin on the way. The Mayor was probably the most disgusting man on the planet, due to his greasy, oily bald head which gives him the appearance of an egg. He had heavy rolls of white fat spilling over the tight hem of his black trousers that he wore all the time. His eyes were black and narrow like snake-slits. It was his attitude that repulsed me the most; he was a jovial man, always bellowing and guffawing at the smallest of jests, but it was his behaviour around women- he would try to touch them at all possible times, and was indeed a pervert.

And the thought of my mother sleeping with him, allowing him to touch her in certain areas, disgusts me.

Canicus exhales exasperatedly, and I realize that he's waiting for my response. "I know my mother. She wouldn't have betrayed me and my father."

"But what if she did betray you?" Canicus tilts his head back to study the stars. "Anyway, why do you care so much about her? I thought…you hated her…"

"I do!" I snap, outraged and flustered. Gradually, I recognize the truth of what he is saying. _Why should I be bothered about the fact that my mother was a whore, I already hate her._

"You puzzle me, you know, everything you do is different and sometimes it doesn't have any meaning," Canicus murmurs softly, as if he is talking to himself. "I've been trying to _read_you."

"I guess I'm just difficult to read…" I smirk smugly, but the smile disappears in a second, leaving only a ghost of a smile.

"Is it true that you murdered your mother?" Canicus blurts out.

I blink momentarily, surprised that he knows. "Not just my mother, but also my father. How do you know?"

"Well, Sade said to me after the Training Days that there are rumours in District Two about you…and your parents. They are about how you were a little boy and you killed your parents," Canicus says thoughtfully. "Also, I somehow knew that you killed somebody before, I just felt it from the presence of you."

"Interesting," I say flatly.

"It's unfortunate that you didn't kill your sister as well," Canicus says jokingly, laughing.

Without meaning to, I laugh along with him. "Yeah, it's a shame."

"So, are you not close to your sister at all?" Canicus says, surprised and intrigued.

"No. I'm not close to anybody, only Rebecca."

"Who's Rebecca?" he asks, but in his eyes, I know he already knows who she is.

"She's my friend. My protector. It was her who told me to kill my parents…" I hesitate at the last sentence, knowing those words would make people think I'm mad. But I'm not mad. It's the others who are mad…

"Is she here now?" Canicus whispers, smirking a little. He knows. He knows I can hear them. But why did he never hear them before?

"No. She's gone," I hiss the words, feeling a little hint of hurt.

"Oh," Canicus says, disappointment tainting his voice. He turns his head away from me.

Silence invades the camp again. Leaves softly rustle in the gentle wind; a tangle of branches clatter overhead. I peer up at the branches, inspecting how they look like skeletons clawing at the empty air. The fire blazes luminously in the dark. The very sight of it blinds me momentarily.

"Do you like your District Partner?" Canicus asks curiously.

I crane my neck tentatively, a loose strand of red brushing against my scratched temple. "No. Why did you ask?"

"I don't like my District Partner as well…" he says, quiet with prominent hatred. "In fact, I _despise_ her. I wish she was dead. I wish she wasn't my ally…"

"I feel the exact same about Sade," I reply, squinting as I glower at the body of Sade as she sleeps peacefully. No matter how I long to slit her throat in the dead of the night, I know I still have to wait…wait until Sheba tells me to finish her off.

Canicus turns to me, meeting my pale eyes. His eyes are black and seem to reflect the darkness around him; the light of the fire sparkles in his eyes, the shimmering glow of the moon dances across his eyes, deep shadows of trees and other things we cannot see in the darkness fleet through the corners of his eyes. His eyes look almost dead…

"I was hoping to talk to you…privately. And I got my chance, finally," he begins, "I thought that perhaps we could make a plan together… A plan in order to go as far as the Final Eight."

"Oh. What's the plan?" I ask, curiosity taking control of me. Concentration etches into my face as I listen to his quiet words.

"Okay, here's the plan…"

* * *

**Bloodbath Overview**

Fatalities (In Order):

Spurling, District 7 female: Decapitated by bomb shrapnel.

Quillheart, District 6 male: Killed in torpedo explosion.

Neve, District 11 female: Killed by Lucian Drake.

4. Con Rossencourte, District 4 male: Killed by Admire Blanchard.

5. Bastian Estatika, District 5 male: Killed by Jet Matthews.

Injuries:

**District 1:**

Canicus Macaulay – [Injury Status: Minor] Bruised ribs and scratches on arms from bullet grazing and fight with guards, wound near eye from falling shrapnel.

Admire Blanchard – [Injury Status: Miniscule] A cut lip and various small scratches from barbed wire, broken nails.

**District 2:**

Jet Matthews – [Injury Status: Minor] Unknown.

Sade Artois – [Injury Status: Minor] Bullet wound in thigh, small cuts and bruises from scuffles with Lucian and Pipper.

**District 3:**

Brennadon Rydik – [Injury Status: Moderate] Small cut in shoulder due to getting thrown and caught in barbed wire, sent flying and knocked unconscious with bruised ribs and a shrapnel wound due to a nearby mine explosion.

Maeve Morghal – [Injury Status: Miniscule] A long scratch extending from ear to hairline due to barbed wire.

**District 4:**

Roulla Saney – [Injury Status: Miniscule] Painful scratch near back of neck.

**District 5:**

Atalanta Zimmerman – [Injury Status: Minor] Two minor scratches on arm, large bruise on hip.

**District 6:**

Londyn Aureole – [Injury Status: Minor] Scratches on face and arms from stumbling into barbed wire, minor shrapnel burns, and a sprained ankle.

**District 7:**

Jonas Emerson – [Injury Status: Minor] Broken pinky finger and cut lip from tripping into trench, bruised tailbone from initial landing, various cuts, bruises, and scrapes from a brawl with Bren, and a deep cut on the bridge of his nose.

**District 8:**

Damian Blackwater – [Injury Status: Minor] Deep and painful shrapnel wound to thigh.

Anya Powers – [Injury Status: Miniscule] Long scratch from another tribute, possibly Jet, and a rolled ankle due to collision with debris.

**District 9:**

Alaric Pakalin – [Injury Status: Moderate] Unknown.

Juniper Harris – [Injury Status: Moderate] Deep shoulder wound from bullet, shallow scratch to her side, and badly bruised left forearm, various scratches from barbed wire.

**District 10:**

Sean Armani – [Injury Status: Minor] Deep gash into left upper arm and heavily bruised left cheekbone after being punched and thrown into barbed wire by Damian, a few bruised ribs from small mine explosion as well as temporary loss of hearing, various scratches and scrapes from environment.

Pipper Young – [Injury Status: Minor] Small cuts from barbed wire, bruises from an underwater struggle with Sade, bruise on face from bullet graze, and scraped knees from fall damage.

**District 11:**

Eric Fiske – [Injury Status: Miniscule] Cuts on neck and shoulders from barbed wire, graze on upper left arm from flying shrapnel.

**District 12:**

Lucian Drake – [Injury Status: Miniscule] Long cut extending under eye from a struggling Bianca, bullet graze near knee.

Galla Cinder – [Injury Status: Moderate] Badly wounded leg from stepping near a mine explosion, various bullet grazes and scratches from falling shrapnel.


	47. Fighting Scarecrows

**As of a year ago today, Tears of Blood first started XD. Thanks for sticking with us! Next update Thursday not sure what time as I have bronchitis and might have to go back to the ER/Doctor.**

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**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny here. I know some of you are probably wondering what Nina meant when she asked for your hearts and thoughts to go out to me in Jet's Halloween chapter. Recently, a friend of mine had gone missing, and the night before Halloween, Tuesday the 30****th**** of October, 2012, he was found dead, having taken his own life. It's been a very hard time for me and everyone that knew him, and I'd just like to dedicate this chapter to him. In memory of Cormac Clare, my friend.**

**I know life can get hard sometimes, and I'm sure that someone reading this will have found it hard to get through each day, but please, always believe that it will get better and try to talk to someone. Bottling up your feelings won't work. Those feelings won't go away unless you try to deal with the problem.**

**Also, just wanted to let you guys know that I use ellipse (…) to show that Erik's train of thought is wandering, or when he's finding it difficult to state whatever he's thinking. Good few people were commenting on it. It's just how I write. I also tend to think in the past tense. Hence the style of my previous chapters.**

* * *

**Erik Fiske of District Eleven**

**First Night By NicKenny**

* * *

"_In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep busy, to plow your anger and your energy into something positive." – Lee Iacocca._

* * *

The screams ring out from the far end of the Career's camp, and I wince from my vantage point high up in one of the trees at the edge of their base. I have been up here for about half an hour and those screams had been echoing throughout the forest pretty much throughout that period. I had only just stumbled onto the camp and found a suitable area for reconnaissance when Jet Matthews had appeared out of forest, dragging behind him a terrified and clearly wounded Bastian Estatika behind him. The smaller tribute had screamed and flailed about but couldn't dislodge the vicelike grip Matthews had on his shoulder. Even if he had, I doubt whether the kid would make it far before Matthews had caught up with him. Despite the distance between us, I know a broken leg when I see one. Estatika is as good as dead, and from the screams that are echoing throughout the forest, it'd probably be preferable than life at this moment.

An image of Matthews' face set in a permanent scowl, utterly devoid of emotion, flashes through my mind. No…not probably, certainly.

I shake my head slowly, trying to cast off the feelings of guilt and disgust that are coursing through me at that moment. There's nothing I can do, I reason to myself. There are five of them and only one of me, and all I had managed to salvage for myself from the Bloodbath was a long piece of splintered wood that I had fashioned into a makeshift spear. The flare I had found discarded in the trenches burnt out long ago. And who knows what the Careers have managed to whip up? For all I know, the Gamemakers have led them directly to a cache of weapons, just to screw over the outlier districts. After all, I can't imagine that they'd be too happy having two consecutive outlier victors.

Although, by the looks of it, the Bloodbath hasn't been particularly kind on the Career pack. I've been perched in my tree for over an hour, and so far I have only seen five of them, Matthews, Saney, Macaulay, Blanchard and...Artois. But not Rossencourte. Seems like the Games have claimed their first Career victim. At least it hadn't been Artois. I have a more…personal demise in mind for her.

It is…interesting that Rossencourte had been the first to go though, I muse. It has been pretty clear to everyone that Con and Canicus despise each other, and I overheard Sade and Roulla discussing the fact that he had tried to recruit Lucian Drake and Brennadon Rydik but Macaulay had been quick to shoot that down.

Of course, he could have just defected. It wouldn't be completely unheard of. In the thirteenth Games, the District One male abandoned his pack and joined a group of four Outliers, and led them to the Careers' pack, where they slaughtered them in their sleep. Of course, he then went on to win it, so it hadn't been a particularly great year for the Outliers.

Few years were.

Bastian's screams start up again, and I wince, sickened by my own inability to help him. I sit there, perched on a branch high above them, racked with guilt and an underlying sense of shame. I'm as powerless here as I was in the Capitol, as I was when my father was thrown onto that bonfire all those years ago. By myself, I am weak. Alone, I am helpless, another tribute just waiting for the inevitable sword through the ribs.

I guess that's why we have alliances.

I wince once more as Estatika lets out another piercing shriek, followed by a sort of gurgling moan, and my patience finally snaps. I slip down the tree as naturally as if I was some sort of human-monkey hybrid, the likes of which we'll probably see at some point during the Games. I grew up working in an orchard after all. Tall trees like this, with strong roots, sturdy boughs and thick foliage are hardly much of a challenge.

Dropping to the forest's floor beneath me, I quickly glance around, reassuring myself that I have made no noise and the Careers are far too focused on their _prize_ to even consider the fact that they could be under surveillance. After all, why would they come to that conclusion? They have the power at the moment, even without Con. Who'd be suicidal enough to stalk the Careers?

They were overconfident, and while, right now, they have every right to be, it'll hurt them later on. It is a weakness, and while I would have preferred outright stupidity, laziness, or just general incompetency, overconfidence will have to do.

I walk slowly through the forest, taking care not to leave any tracks, eyes and ears open for any noise, and movement. This is for real, after all. One small mistake and my name will join the others broadcasted into the sky tonight.

But that's ok. I hadn't realised it before the day of the launch, but my entire life has been leading up to this. If I had my bow, and could entertain, even for a second, that the Gamemakers would be content with letting me set up camp, I could just stay among the tree branches and pick off the other tributes one by one. In this forest, I could be untouchable.

I'm in my element.

At this moment, however, I don't have that option. Too many Careers. But I'll get my chance at Sade, I'm sure of that at least. I can hardly see the Gamemakers passing up on a chance like that for some real _entertainment._

I suppose now is as good a time as any to reflect on my luck. Out of the twenty-four tributes, I know I have outlasted four, as the Bloodbath cannons sounded a good while ago, and Bastian Estatika can't have long left. I wince briefly as a flashback to the Launch sails through my mind, stirring up memories that are better left buried.

_Running through the trenches and obstacles leading up to the Cornucopia, eyes fixed on the giant golden horn in front of me. I had lost Harris and Blackwater a few minutes ago, and was sure that no one could have made it here faster. I glanced at the gash on my left arm, angrily chastising myself for being so careless, having not noticed the mine until it had exploded in front of me, sending a piece of shrapnel slicing through my arm. At least the cut hadn't been very deep. I'd be ok. A shrill whining noise caused me to glance upwards, and I saw a small indistinct object plummeting down towards me, high up in the sky. Going into Red Alert, I sprinted back towards the towers, preferring to risk getting shot rather than blown to pieces. It was fortunate that I had. Seconds later the very ground that I had been standing on exploded in a cloud of dirt, metal and fire. I glanced back, and, seeing a glint of steel flying towards me, I threw myself to the ground. Something whizzed over my head, and my ears were filled with an abrupt, blood-curdling scream which was cut off as suddenly as it had started, the silence broken by a dull _thump. _I slowly stood up, seeing a body lying flat on the ground no more than twenty yards away from me, the head missing, but still unmistakably that of Alexis Spurling. I turned away, feeling sick, and began to run towards the Cornucopia once more, determined to put as much distance between myself and the body of the poor dead girl. Running from my feelings of sadness, despair…and guilt._

I shake myself, coming back to the real world. I have to stop letting things like this affect me. Alexis' death, Bastion's torture…none of this is my fault. I should be glad, the only way I am ever going to see my home again is if twenty-three other people die.

And I want to go home. I want to see Adam and Damien again. I want to see the sun set on the grain fields before I die, the gold more illuminated and vibrant and _real _than anything the Capitol, with all their technology and wealth, could ever hope to capture. I want to see the resignation in Artois' face when he sees me return, triumphant, with his niece dead. I want him to suffer, as I've spent my life suffering.

_I want to go home._

But…I can't help but feel guilty at the same time. I'm alive, and others aren't. Why? Is it simply chance? Is there a meaning to all of this? Or is it just the Gamemakers manipulating our fates to provide the Capitol with the most entertainment possible?

_Could I kill someone? _This question's been bothering me ever since I was Reaped and I still don't have an answer. A Career…maybe. But anyone else? How would I be able to live with myself?

The treeline suddenly stops, and a large clearing lies before me. I stare at it in shock, confused, wondering if I have taken a wrong turn at some point, although my instincts insist that I haven't. There certainly hadn't been a clearing of any size as I had made my way through here hours before, following the Career's tracks, let alone one this big.

_So…_ I think to myself, mouth curling into a wry smile. _The Gamemakers finally make their play. _Only they could change the landscape like this. Someone up there has decided that it's time they played with me for a while. Well, I'm ready.

There's no point in trying to avoid this. Tributes that have tried to avoid the Gamemakers' traps generally wind up dead pretty quickly. The only direction open to me is forward, or six feet down.

_Bring it._

I make my way out of the trees slowly, scanning the glade for any possible signs of hostility. Just because I have consented to play their game doesn't mean I'm going to be stupid about it. I'm not going to die at the hands of some mutt grown in District 9, or any other challenge they put in front of me. Not until Artois is dead at least.

_They can't stop me getting my revenge. No one can._

The glade is seemingly empty, other than some sort of manmade hill on the far side, too far away for me to accurately say exactly what it is, safe and quiet. Unsettlingly, eerily quiet. As I look around the plant life of the glade catches my eye, not consisting of a ragtag mixture of clover, grass and assorted wild plants but instead contained a thin cover of yellowing, thin blades of brittle, prickly grass, dried up by the sun after a period of exposure. Almost as if the grass has been cut… Almost like a field after haymaking time.

My guess proves correct. I make my way up to what I had thought was a manmade hill, but in fact turns out to be a monstrously huge stack of hay bales, stretching up far higher than it had appeared to back from the treeline where I had entered. When I stop only about two hundred yards away from it, a grinding noise begins to echo throughout the glade/field, occasionally accompanied by the odd screech, and the ground itself begins to tremble.

I spin around, raising my spear in a stance better suited for fighting, hip height, point…well…_pointing_ in front of me as huge metal bars spring up from the ground in all directions, maybe two or three dozen feet high, leaving me trapped inside a cage, only the sky unhidden behind bars.

I look back towards the pile of hay bales. Clearly I'm expected to climb to the top. Otherwise this display makes no sense. I have to hand it to this year's Gamemakers: this is the finest misuse of valuable material that I have ever seen. I mean, how many tractors could this unnecessarily large cage be melted down to make? People back in the Capitol clearly have no concept of making full use of their materials. Send food to starving orphans in the districts? Insane! Make a giant cage to trap a starving orphan in? Brilliant idea! Someone get that man a coat made of whatever animal is currently in trend, and give him some job that he will not have the responsibility or the qualifications to deal with!

_And so I am to climb their death-trap, like a good little mouse, searching for cheese._

_However, _I can't help wondering, _What sort of cheese have they left out for me?_

I take one lone cautious step forward, gingerly stepping onto the cut grass in front of me, fully expecting all hell to break loose. And I'm not disappointed.

The ground begins to shake once more, but instead of iron bars punching towards the sky, dozens of figures begin to pull themselves up out of the grass. I blink, surprised. They certainly hadn't been there before. It's only as the first of them stands up, coincidentally the one nearest to me, that I begin to see exactly what sort of plan the Gamemakers have in mind for me.

The figure was unmistakably intended to be a scarecrow, though no scarecrow that I have ever seen had ever been put together so haphazardly. Its head is made from traditional sacking, no eyes but a mouth has been sewed on into a sickening grimace. Its body's covered in scraps of cloth, though a worryingly sharp looking spike protrudes from its chest, and its fingers are simply metal claws. Its arms and legs are thin and weak looking, but I have little doubt that underneath the cloth I'll find metal sharp and strong enough to slice through my flesh.

And then it gets weird.

The scarecrow emits some sort of choked cry, shudders and then _bursts into flames._ And then the others follow suit, gasping before they ignite. I cock my head, wondering whether the Gamemakers have sent out quite possibly the worst designed obstacles of any Hunger Games to have taken place so far when the first one takes a step towards me.

And then another.

By its next step it's within arm's reach of me, and it flails its claws at me, and no doubt would have done me serious injury had I not rolled underneath its attack, smashing the head of my spear into its knee-joint as I rise. A resounding crack echoes throughout the field, and the scarecrow collapses onto the ground. I raise my spear and bring the tip down into its chest, and am greeted with a feral scream as the monster thrashes about for a moment, before finally lying still.

And then it dissolves.

Nothing is left, save for a small pile of metallic dust and a wisp of smoke. However, it was not the only scarecrow in the field, and even as I look up, something flashes across my field of vision, and pain explodes in red hot trails across my chest. The scarecrow chuckles, blood on its claws, and takes another swipe at me, which I manage to deflect off the shaft of my spear. Apparently its claws can't hack through wood as easily as it had torn through my clothes and skin. I suppose that is something to be grateful for, though the pain in my chest makes it hard for me to be particularly grateful for anything. I push the scarecrow back a few feet, giving me enough room to pull my spear back and plunge it into the creature's chest. It reacts similarly to the first, screaming and thrashing before crumbling into dust.

_Machines_.

I look back up, towards the other scarecrows. Several are shuffling towards me but the majority have their backs to me, making their way towards the mountain of hay bales.

_Why?_

This confuses me, but I don't have much time to dwell on it as two scarecrows come within slashing range of me, forcing me to clumsily block their blows with my spear. The makeshift weapon is proving difficult to use, a far cry from the perfectly crafted weapons we trained with in the Capitol. I still can't believe that the Cornucopia had been empty. I had been the first to make it there. Before the Careers, before Blackwater, before Armani, before anyone. And it has done me no favours. The golden horn was empty. In the long run it will probably work out in my favour. The Careers being unarmed can only be a good thing, and I can probably forage better than any of the others, apart from possibly Harris. However, that isn't much comfort to a man having to use a sharp stick to fight off mechanical scarecrows hell-bent on shredding him into little pieces.

_Why were there no weapons? How much _entertainment _can they expect to get watching a bunch of tributes batter each other with sticks and rocks?_

_Unless…_

I glance back up at the hay bale mountain, trying to find what I'm looking for.

_There!_

Just at the very top of the mountain, something glitters in the sunlight. _Can this be their plan? Entertain us and we'll arm you? Fail to do so and die? _It's something to hope for, no matter how slender that hope is. And it's the only chance I have of getting out of here alive.

I swing my spear in a wide arc, clearing me some space, pushing the scarecrows away from me. I run towards the one on my left, stabbing it in the stomach and throw myself forward as another flails its burning limbs at me. My heart's pounding in my chest, as these burning mechanical monstrosities cause me to think of my father, screaming and flailing as he burnt on that bonfire.

I shrug those images aside, picking myself up and charging towards the mountain. The scarecrows who have been making their slow, shuffling way towards it seem to sense me coming and begin to turn. But robotic bodies are clearly not made for graceful movement, and before they can turn about I'm upon them, spearing two and knocking down another three before the others are able to react. I don't allow myself to get caught up in the fight this time, ignoring my pursuers, eyes firmly fixed on the hay bales in front of me. One manages to land a blow on me, slashing open the back of my jacket and lightly grazing the skin, no doubt leaving bloody furrows where its fingers raked.

One scarecrow has passed out the others in its haste to make it to the hay stacks and indeed has almost made it there. I roar at it in a feeble attempt to get it to turn around but it simply ignores me, focusing on its task that lies closer at hand. I swear under my breath, and throw my spear at it. By some miracle of fortune the spear flies true, and impales the scarecrow through its chest. It screams, trying to pull on the shaft protruding from its chest.

I reach the first bale and quickly spring up onto it, all too aware of the horde at my back. I scurry up the mountain as fast as I can, but before I've even made it to the halfway point a scarecrow makes it to the foot. It crows triumphantly and begins to slice through the hay, fire pouring down its arms onto the dried grass, setting it aflame. Others soon join it and I can feel the heat of the flames behind me as I climb, eyes fixed on the peak, glancing behind me only to reassure myself that the machines haven't started to climb after me.

I pray that this hasn't all just been an act of stupidity, that something lies at the top that will allow me to get out of this alive. _A bow. A bow would best. I could pick them off from up here and make my way down without having to worry about what was waiting for me at the bottom._

I scramble up the penultimate bale and leap up onto the last one. My lungs are full of smoke, the entire section behind me having been cast into a raging inferno. As I pull myself up, I'm grimly satisfied to see a weapon lying before me, its polished metal blade reflecting the fire behind me, shimmering and twisting, beautiful and deadly.

_Not a bow…but I can use this._

I pick it up, running my fingers over the smooth wooden shaft, weighing it and finding it to be more than agreeable. It's perfect, far superior than any others of its kind that I had seen back home in District Eleven. With this, I'm more than just a threat.

_I'm death._

I have to smile to myself a bit, though. I suppose I brought it on myself by wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the Scarecrows' crest during the interviews.

_A sun and two interlocking scythes. And now I have one in my hands._

The inferno rages from all sides, and I can no longer make out the shapes of the scarecrows behind the flames and the smoke. I can still hear them though. Their unnatural, gurgling, metallic cackling echoes all around me. But if I can't see them…maybe they can't see me.

I have only two choices. Charge down, through the fire, and possibly die, or stay where I am…and definitely die.

_Talk about Hobson's choice._

I grit my teeth, steel myself, and run, covering my face with my arms, my hands still tightly gripping my new discovery. The flames lick at my clothes, and singe my skin where my clothes are ripped, whether due to the scarecrows or shrapnel from the Launch. I swear, but keep moving, knowing that the only way to survive is to get through the fire. Finally, I burst through the last of the flames, and stumble, not prepared for hay bales to end and grass to begin.

I catch myself, regaining my balance, and swing my new weapon in a wide arc as a scarecrow takes a wild swing at me. The blade shears through its arm with little resistance, and I'm forced to grudgingly admit that someone knows a thing or two about making scythes back in the Capitol. This thing cuts through metal as if it were paper! I'd like to see what it'd do to flesh and bone.

_And God knows I'll get my chance._

Another scarecrow appears before me, and once again I make short work of it with my scythe. The next one falls before me, and the next, and the one after that. Fire behind me, metallic monsters in front of me, and a scythe in my hands.

I've never felt more alive.

I suppose I give into bloodlust, if you can get that from destroying robots. After a few minutes of hacking away at mechanical skeletons, they all just merge into one, hacking away at you, burning and screeching, your scythe cutting through them, steel ripping through cloth and metal, the smell of smoke of charred grass filling your nose, eyes watering…time itself seemed to stop. I honestly can't tell you how long I've been fighting for, or how many scarecrows I've destroyed. My right arm has gained a long cut from wrist to shoulder, three shallow scratches adorn my cheek on the left side of my face. Blood is flowing down my cheek, down my chest and back, and my clothes are in tatters.

Eventually though, the fires die down, as there's nothing left to burn, and only one scarecrow stands before me. It looks around, seeming to notice its fallen comrades, and stretches out its arm towards me, one claw pointing at me as it begins to chuckle. I take a step towards it, and it drops its arm, cocking its head to the left.

I raise the scythe, about to cut down the last of these terrors, when it does something that makes me pause, just for a moment.

The flames that engulf it die down a little, allowing me to see its hideously malformed face, and it seems to smile, its mouth curving upwards.

And it speaks.

"Scarecrow."

Its voice is harsh and raspy, a tinny screech accompanying every syllable. I stop in my tracks, confused. Why is it talking to me? What is going on?

It begins to laugh, the glade filling with the sound of creaky, screechy laughter. I shake myself out of my stupor and swing the scythe through its neck, sending the severed head flying. I then slash downwards, slicing through the body of the scarecrow, leaving it shattered in the grass. It disintegrates immediately, just like all the others had, and the ground trembles once more, the cage that surrounded the glade slowly begins to sink into the ground.

I shrug and shoulder my scythe, turning away from the dust-covered battlefield, until a voice rings out.

"Scarecrow."

The scarecrow's voice again. Malevolent, raspy and cruel.

I turn back, and see the head I had severed lying in the grass, its eyes seeming to stare at me. For some reason it hadn't joined its brothers in collapsing into dust when destroyed. I walk over to it, and prod it with the end of my scythe, worrying that it is somehow booby-trapped. After a moments' consideration, I bend down and gingerly pick it up.

Its face is truly horrific, warped and malformed in a way that could easily have terrified tributes more…fragile…than myself, but other than that there's nothing remarkable about it. It's simply a piece of sacking, stitched in a way so to resemble a man's face. It certainly shouldn't have been able to talk.

I stare at it for a minute, and then shrug, putting it down to "weird shit the Gamemakers do to screw with my head", stuffing the sacking into one of the pockets on my jacket, and walk away, leaving the charred field behind me and entering the forest once more.

I move faster than before, despite my injuries, taking less care in covering up my tracks. While there had been quite a sizable distance between the Careers' camp and the scarecrow's field, they almost certainly would have seen the smoke from the burning haystacks. And I really doubt they'd decide to ignore it. They're Careers. They'll be looking for blood.

I pause, leaning against a tree, right hand closed over the cuts on my upper left arm, blood oozing through my fingers. I shrug off my jacket and tear off the sleeves, tearing off strips to use as bandages. I wrap them around the particularly deep cuts on my arms and chest, praying that the material would be adsorbent enough to work as bandages.

I pick up my now sleeveless jacket and put it on, wincing as pain flares in my chest and back as I slip my arms through. Glancing around, I grimly notice that I couldn't have made it easier for the Careers to track me, the grass around me trampled and specked with blood. I just have to hope they aren't on my tail, that something has distracted them and prevented them from hunting me down.

Something softly _thumps_ down onto the ground behind me, and I spin around, scythe springing into my hand. A small silver parachute lies on the ground, shimmering in the light.

_Damn. _I think, shocked beyond words. After all the crap I just went through, I guess maybe the Capitol thinks I deserve some kind of compensation. But to be honest, the scythe is more than enough for now. It would make much more sense to save any sponsor money until I actually need it. What could Vikus and Kendrick think I need right now? I can deal with these wounds. I don't need their help.

I pull back the parachute to reveal…a small, plain black backpack. Woo… Clearly they broke the bank with this one. I pick it up and unzip it, expecting something to be inside, but it appears my escorts are determined to disappoint me at every turn. Empty. Useless.

With a heavy sigh, I sling it over my shoulder, and move on, running as fast as I can through the undergrowth, determined to put as much space between me and any possible pursuers as possible. After about half an hour, I stop again, unable to continue running, my legs going to jelly beneath me. I smile grimly, noticing how my attitude has changed since the launch. Before the Games, all I had done was try to get the Careers to focus on me, to try to give others time to get away while I led the Pack on a merry little chase.

Now, I just don't want to be found. Cos if they do find me, when I'm in this state, I'll put up about as much of a fight as a soggy piece of lettuce.

_And we know how the Careers love their veggies don't we?_

I begin to walk, slowly at first, and consider that last thought. It didn't made any sense whatsoever. In any way. Maybe the blood loss is starting to affect me, because I'm generally not that random or nonsensical. Am I getting stupider? Is stupider even a word? Is brain damage suddenly becoming a plausible explanation?

I shake my head slowly, giving up on my attempts to remember if I had hit my head at any time today and look around. This area seems familiar. Roughly halfway between the Career's camp and the Cornucopia. In other words, halfway between two killing zones, a no man's land free of anyone with an ounce of sense or rationality.

Thankfully, I hadn't told Anya that.

"Anya?" I murmur, hating how my voice disrupts the sounds of nature which fill this forest. It makes me feel as though I'm being watched.

Which, I guess I am. So I'm not going crazy. Yet.

"Anya." I say again, a bit louder this time. Again, the forest seems to grow silent at the sound of my voice, but at least this time I'm rewarded with a rustling coming from my left, where a clump of bushes are suddenly parted to reveal the very welcome features of District Eight's female tribute, Anya Powers. Who screams and jabs her spear in my general direction.

I don't even have enough time to get a word out, forced to bring my scythe upwards to protect myself. The blade shears through her spear, catches on a knot for a second, and then comes free with a crack, splintering the weapon into pieces.

"What the hell!" I exclaim, as Anya freezes and drops remnants of her spear, staring at me in shock.

"Sorry E-Erik. I thought you were someone else." She stammers, before her eyes widen and she turns away, falling onto her hands and knees as she throws up on top of some sort of shrub.

I fought against the urge to roll my eyes, unsurprised at Anya's rather…unusual state. I honestly don't know how she made it through the Bloodbath. Who enters the arena roaring drunk, and somehow escapes the Bloodbath relatively unharmed, though from her jumbled recollections had apparently come across Matthews, Sanley, Drake and some sort of fire breathing goat that only spoke in rhyme?

Though I'm assuming the last one was a figment of her imagination. If not, the Gamemakers had really got inventive this year.

Anya stands up, and wipes her mouth, eyes refocusing on me. Suddenly she grins and walks towards me.

"About time." She exclaims, punching my shoulder, in what I assume is meant to be a friendly way, but sends spikes of pain shooting through my arm, clearly dismissing her moment of weakness from memory. Her smile fades when she notices me wince, and she pauses to actually look me over, her eyes widening when she realises what a truly battered state I am in.

"Fuck! What happened to you?"

I drop my scythe, sitting down on a nearby rock to examine my bandages. "You know, fire, cages, Careers, talking flaming mechanical scarecrows with razor blades for fingers. The usual shit."

"Oh right." She says, immediately forgetting my injuries, distracted by the nearest shiny object in her immediate vicinity, picking up the fallen scythe and giving it a clumsy flourish. "This is actually pretty badass looking. Your scarecrows give you that?"

"In a manner of speaking. I took it from their cold, dead hands."

"Really?"

"No. It was on top of a burning mountain of hay. I'm starting to really dislike our friends back in the Capitol. They're being overly sadistic."

Anya shrugs, passing the scythe over to me. "What were you expecting, a parade? It's their job after all. It's not like there hasn't already been twenty-four of these things, just to give us a bit of an idea as to how this is going to go!"

I nod, soberly reflecting on the truth of her words. We aren't training anymore. Now, our lives are in our hands. And in a few days, at least one of the two of us will be dead.

I stand up, happy that my bandages are still in place, and seem to be working. I'll need to find water to clean the wounds though, or risk infection. And that's not something I want to have to deal with out here. Some of my burns probably need treatment too.

"We need to move out." I say, glancing over at Anya. "I'll explain what happened on the way. Careers might be following me, and it'd be nice to put some distance between us and them if they are. Finding some water would be nice too."

To her credit, Anya accepts this without question. I guess I like that about her. She doesn't complain. She mightn't have the training skills, or even the common sense that other tributes took for granted, but I could have done worse for an ally. At least I can trust her not to knife me in my sleep.

I hope.

However, my optimistic opinion on Anya soon proves false. After about twenty-five minutes of trudging through the forest, getting tangled in thorn bushes, tripping over roots and getting stuck in what I assure her was mud, her patience wears thin. Even my attempts to regale my heroic tales of the day, starring Sadistic Sam the talking scarecrow, and my theories on what had happened to Con Rossencourte, only seem to irritate her more, leaving me to fall back on my long-ago perfected technique of being quiet and angry looking. It just comes to me so naturally at times.

"Where. Are. We. Going?" She wails, panting due to lack of breath. I sigh and point forward.

"North. To the top of this hill."

She gives me a blank look and sniffs. "But why? What's wrong with here? Can we at least stop for a few minutes?"

I turn around, my face blank and my tone dark. "We could Anya. We could stop. And we could risk the Careers catching up with us, and letting Matthews do to you what he did to Bastian Estatika. On the other hand, we could keep going, make it to the top of this hill, which should have a good vantage point of the land around it, hopefully a spring of some sort, and some tree cover for tonight. Which is it going to be?"

She stares at me, clearly surprised by my tone, perhaps seeing me in a new light. I know some of the other tributes are afraid of me. I'm big and strong, and here to kill them. At least, that was the idea. I just hadn't ever wanted Anya to see that way. I'm not a monster. But, here, I'll always be seen as one. Just another Boston Williams, a talking, muscled killing machine, too dumb to distinguish friend from foe. It's the way it always has been. Even back home in District Eleven people had assumed that because I'm big and strong naturally means that I have the intelligence of a mentally deficient horse.

"We're already under trees?" She whines feebly, knowing that her argument is lost before she makes it. I nod sagely, conceding her point. We are indeed under trees. How very observant of her.

"But these are oak trees. Those on the top of that hill are chestnut. Much less likely to be struck by lightning. And here, in these Games, I'm not taking any chances. They provide better cover too. Thicker foliage."

Anya sighs heavily and pushes past me. I smile to myself, somewhat in jest, acknowledging that it's going to be hard to put up with someone as headstrong and adamant of their opinions as she is. The fact that she's clearly suffering from a lack of alcohol in her system can also help explain her attitude. I hope at least. Ever since we had met up after the Bloodbath she had been going through mood swings at a worrying rate. Detoxing can get pretty rough, I have gathered. Vikus had been pretty much an expert on alcoholism, and his ability as an escort had increased immensely after I had punched him that night. Perhaps, if I win this thing, I'll advise future tributes to do the same. A little abuse could hardly hurt the spoilt, vain denizens of the Capitol. Maybe it'd knock some sense into them.

Anya stopped in her tracks, about fifty yards away from me, sending alarm bells ringing throughout my brain. I raise my scythe cautiously, and, walking slowly towards her, whisper. "What's going on? What do you see?"

Instead of receiving an answer, Anya slowly turns around to face me, beaming and batting her eyelashes. "Erik..." She begins slowly. "You're from District Eleven, the agricultural district, right?"

I nod slowly, not entirely sure where this is going. "Yeah?" I venture, confused.

"You guys grow…alcoholic stuff right? Stuff that's made into beer and things?"

I concede this point. "We do. We grow grapes, hops, barley, potatoes and pretty much everything that gets made into alcohol. We brew it too. There are a few dozen factories in the centre of the district specifically for fermentation." I began to suspect where this is heading, but hope I'm wrong. Even Anya wouldn't be that desperate, surely.

"So…you know how to make alcohol."

"I…do." We are entering a very dangerous area here. Crops are always getting stolen in the district. It's an inevitable consequence of having too many hungry workers and too few Peacekeepers to police them. The Scarecrows certainly weren't going to risk alienating the district any further simply for the sake of a few heads of cabbage. A lot of these crops wound up in illegal breweries that were dotted all over the district. Well, those that fermented well at least, grapes and potatoes and the like. Admittedly Three-Fingered Hal's cabbage beer has gone down well since its invention, but I have never seen its appeal. It tastes of cabbage, quite possibly the vilest foodstuff known to man. Only a real alcoholic would bother with that piss.

_Some people would do anything to get drunk, to forget this shithole of a world we lived in._

I had spent enough time among them to know how much of their trade worked. It's hardly brain surgery after all. Anything will ferment if you want it too. I had seen a man arrested and whipped for trying to sell a…liquid…made from fermented rat to a Peacekeeper.

"So…you could make vodka and stuff if you wanted to?"

I sigh, shaking my head in exasperation. "I could…_if _we had potatoes…_and_ it'd take five to six days. And then you'd be all but useless to me. I'm sorry Anya, you're going to have to get through this sober."

She frowns again, clearly not happy about this, and storms off, muttering under her breath. I frown, but just shrug it off.

_She knew that this was inevitable. So what if she was forced into this? So were most of us._

I catch up with her just as we reach the top of the hill. To my delight, a small stream gurgles down the opposite side, stemming from a spring on the top of that hill. I drop down to my knees, cautiously sipping from the pool that surrounds the spring, aware that it could all to easily be poisoned. After I'm satisfied that the water was safe, I drink more enthusiastically, and Anya follows suit.

Feeling more refreshed, I sit back and check my bandages again. By this point, they're in sore need of a change, so I take them off, using the spare material I have left to replace them. I take a moment to clean out the wounds, and similarly clean the burns on my face. It hurts like hell, but I'll take any amount of pain over an infection. I do not need to run a fever or to be otherwise incapacitated out here. Anya's a nice girl, and I think I can trust her, but she's had no training in weapons. She'd have about as much chance in a fight as a chocolate kettle has of actually working. As loathe as she is to admit it, she needs me, for the time being at least.

_And I need her._

Alone, I would bore the Capitol. I'd be the first to admit that I'm not the most charismatic tribute in these Games, and if the Capitol starts getting bored of me…well, I don't really want to find out. I'm just going to assume I'd rather they _didn't _get bored of me. And that's where Anya comes into the equation. Something that no one would ever dare call her is boring. Or dull. Or sensible.

I wrap the new set of bandages around my wounds, wincing every time when the cloth comes in contact with the opened flesh of some of the deeper cuts. Anya remains silent throughout, sitting on a fallen tree trunk a few feet away, pointedly not looking at me. Clearly my refusal to magically conjure alcohol from thin air has pissed her off. So be it.

"So you're an alcoholic." I say, my tone obviously confrontational, hoping to get some sort of reaction from my now silent companion.

However, she simply glances towards me and shakes her head with a derisive snort. "God no." she mutters moodily, stomping on a beetle that had been skittering past her. "Alcoholics have money and class. I was a drunk, and a fucking good one at that."

She then turns away, my attempt to lighten the mood failing miserably. Oh well, I tried, God help me.

I sigh, shaking my head, and walk over to the nearest tree, dropping my pack, and spring up it with relative ease. Still though, I can't help but remember with a twinge of sadness how easily I used to climb trees, back when I was younger and smaller. Now, I can barely climb halfway before the branches became too thin to support my weight. When I reach the highest point that can bear me, I scan the area, looking for any tell-tale signs of smoke or a disturbance of any kind in the birds that filled this forest. We seem to be in the clear for the time being, a group as large and noisy as the Careers' would have half the wildlife here fleeing in fear. We are alone.

I climb down, and shrug when Anya raises a questioning eyebrow in my direction. "I think we're alone." I say, with a half-smile. "We should be safe here tonight anyway. Careers won't be catching up with us before dawn, at least."

I can see Anya preparing a scathing retort, no doubt in frustration at the pace that I have forced her to travel at, now that it appears that it was wholly unnecessary, when a figure appears out of the trees behind her. I stand up in shock, my scythe in my hands, and push her out of the way. Can I have been wrong? Can the Careers have followed us? It goes against all my instincts and training, yet here someone is, and why would they appear unless they had allies to help them kill us? It has to be the Careers.

Therefore I'm even more surprised when the figure steps closer, out of the shadow of the trees, revealing that our pursuer is none other than Anya's own district partner, Damian Blackwater. A sense of unease steals over me; I don't like this one bit. I had put Blackwater down as one of the biggest threats outside of the Career pack during our stint in the Capitol. No one moved faster than he did, the kid was like a cobra, moving faster than I would have thought physically possible. I know he is smarter than most of the other tributes too, and he has his own set of skills that would have proved invaluable to any alliance. Someone can always use a thief.

In his hand he clutches an odd, angular piece of metal, which consists of a serrated blade bent at almost an hundred degree angle. I had seen something similar used in the ninth Games by a District Ten tribute, a…boomerang, I think they called it. My sense of unease grows when I realise that it's splattered with blood. Blackwater must've been in a fight.

However, when my eyes leave the boomerang and refocus on him, I realise that he is in even worse shape than I am. Jutting out of his right thigh is a huge piece of shrapnel. Quite frankly I'm amazed he's been able to walk this far from the launch site. He probably can't even feel his leg at this stage. He's covered in blood and mud, and to be honest, looks like he's at death's door. He takes a shuddering step forward and gestures towards us.

Anya moves behind me, seeing Damian, and sidles by me, walking towards him slowly. "Damian?" She asks, clearly not sure exactly what their relationship is at this moment. Will he try to kill her? The giant metal boomerang in his hand suggests that not all the blood he is soaked in is his own, at the very least. "Are you ok?"

I almost laugh at that. Whatever Damian wants, he clearly isn't ok. He takes one more step forward, and then the boomerang drops from his hand onto the ground.

"Water…" he murmurs, before collapsing onto the ground. Anya runs towards him, rolling him onto his back and screams at me. "Do something!"

I hunker down next to them, examining Damian's injuries, though I can't exactly be sure of them under all that blood and muck. "Here, help me lift him." I say quickly to Anya, motioning for her to grab his legs while I grab his shoulders. We carry him over to the edge of the pool surrounding the spring and I begin to clean him up as best I can, pulling off his jacket in order to assess the situation. Other than the shrapnel jutting out of his leg, he has also been shot through the right foot, and has a particularly nasty cut on the palm of his right hand. Luckily the bullet had passed right through his foot, meaning that I won't have to attempt to remove it, but other than that there isn't much to be thankful for. Blackwater has clearly been through hell. I pull off my jacket, tearing it up completely to provide bandages for Blackwater's injuries, just remembering in time to remove the scarecrow's mask and transfer it to my pack, dropping it onto the ground after. Finally, it turns out to be useful. I clean the bandages to the best of my ability, and bandage up his foot and hand.

The shrapnel though…that's going to be much trickier to deal with. "It's just as well he's out cold." I joke half-heartedly to Anya.

She wrinkles her face in confusion at my words. "Why's that?"

"Cos what I'm about to do would fucking hurt."

I grasp the shrapnel firmly, slowly pulling it out, taking care not to further damage his leg. Once the shrapnel begins to come away, it's quickly followed by blood, pouring out of the now-open wound. I carefully wrap it up in soaked bandages, hoping that it will stop the blood flow, but after a few minutes blood begins to seep through.

Anya begins to shake, clearly upset and frustrated over her inability to help. I'm sure she's had to deal with wounds over her time. From what I've gathered, she's been living on the streets ever since her mother died years back, but wounds like this…were not easy to stomach. "Shouldn't you put pressure on it or something?" She asks, concern and panic radiating off her.

I shake my head quickly. "Not for a shrapnel wound. I've taken out the chunk, but there might be smaller pieces still in the wound. If I put pressure on it, it will just cause more damage. We just have to hope that he hasn't nicked any arteries, and that the flesh will heal over the shards. If he wins, I'm sure the doctors in the Capitol will be able to do something about it. If not…well…he won't be running on that leg anytime soon."

Anya leans back, sitting on the ground, her face contorted with worry, but nods slowly, accepting the truth of my words. I begin to pull off my t-shirt and she steps back, confusion written all over her face. "What are you doing?"

I stare at her for a second, t-shirt half off. "He'll need new bandages, his are almost soaked through." As an afterthought I add, blushing slightly. "Could you turn around for a second?"

Anya pauses, before grinning widely. "What, you're embarrassed now?" She jokes, seeming to take pleasure in my embarrassment. "Didn't seem to bother you during the chariot rides."

I grimace, shaking my head. I honestly don't know how I allowed myself to be convinced that going out in a pair of fruit-adorned underwear had been a good idea. I think Dora, my stylist, must have drugged me somehow. I'll remember that moment, standing before thousands of people, essentially naked, until the day I die.

I guess I can take some consolation in the fact that that day might come sooner rather than later.

Anya chuckles, but does turn around, giving me time to take off my t-shirt and pull on Damian's jacket. It is a tight fit, but warmer than my t-shirt had been, and if I'm giving up my jacket and t-shirt to bandage him, then he can deal with only having a t-shirt when it gets colder.

I tear the t-shirt up into bandages as I had done before with my jacket, and after a few more minutes remove his bandages, replacing them with new ones. The flow of blood has begun to slow down, and the new bandages work better than the old ones had. We drag Damian away from the pool, and leave him underneath one of the larger ash trees to sleep.

By the time he wakes up I have a small fire going, only allowing it to consist of embers so as to minimize smoke. Anya has stayed by his side the whole time, and I have spent a few minutes wondering how my own district partner was doing. I haven't seen Bianca since just before the launch, and I know she was terrified going in. I just hope that she can made it out of the Bloodbath ok. She's a smart kid, and if she can make it to this forest she'll have no problem surviving. She certainly can climb better than any of the other tributes.

Or something could have happened to her, and she could be just as dead as Alexis.

Anya calls me over when Damian opens his eyes, asking for water. Without bottles or cup I'm forced to cup my hands and carry some over for him. Not an elegant solution, but easier than dragging him back over to the water. When he has drunk his fill, he settles back, propped up by the ash tree we left him under. He and Anya begin to hold a hushed conversation and I go back to the fire, not wanting to intrude. After a few minutes, Anya asks me to help her lift him over to the fire, and I comply, knowing that he is probably freezing, but still have no desire to return his coat to him.

"Thanks." He murmurs as I place him on the ground next to the glowing fire, grabbing my wrist as he says it. "And thanks for the warning in the Bloodbath too. That mine could have fucked me up even worse."

I hold his gaze for a moment, before breaking off and pulling my arm out of his grip. "Don't mention it." I gruffly intone. "I'm sure you would have done the same thing."

Damian chuckles weakly at that. "No. I'd have let you die. Nothing personal or anything, but…only one of us can win this thing y'know?"

I chuckle back. "I guess I'm just your guardian angel. Here to protect you and all that crap."

"Then where the hell were you when this," gesturing to the shrapnel wound, "happened?"

"Either stalking Careers or fighting burning robots." I offer, before adding. "Even guardian angels have their own shit to deal with."

He leans back, chuckling slightly, and winces as he accidentally moves his leg. "Will I be ok?" he asks, gesturing to his leg once more, a note of concern prevalent in his voice.

I pause, searching for the right words. "You'll live." I begin, before trailing off a bit. "But…I wouldn't try to run for a while."

He settles back once more, accepting my answer. I am about to ask him if he had seen anyone while he was wandering through this forest, when all of a sudden the world explodes into noise. One loud "bang", deafens my ears, and I dive to the ground, thinking that the Gamemakers had sent those infernal planes after us again, which was quickly accompanied by another. And another. And two more after that.

"Five dead." Anya mutters from the other side of the fire, her eyes scanning the sky. I follow her gaze, and notice that the sky is now alight, the flag of Panem shining above us, the air now filled with the national anthem. Behind me I hear Damian spit on the ground, and across from me Anya's expression sours. Apparently I'm not the only one harbouring feelings of ill-will towards the Capitol.

_I guess it's hard to like people who'll cheer when you die._

The first face suddenly bursts across the sky: Con Rossencourte of District Four. Glad to see my observations have proved correct. We're one Career down and that much better off for it. I suppose I should feel more upset, Con wasn't the enemy here. The people in the Capitol are the ones who deserve our hatred. Still, he would have been all too happy to kill me, and a Career less meant one less person to stop me from killing Sade.

His face is then replaced by that of Bastian Estatika of District Five. I guess Jet finally put him out of his misery. Here, I do start to feel guilty. Even though there had been no way I could have saved Bastion, I can't help but feel guilty. He was being tortured and I listened to his screams yet did nothing. But what could I have done? He was in the Careers' hands. I couldn't fight them off by myself.

_I could have done the right thing, and died trying. I could have been a man, instead of a coward._

From far off, the sound of cheering echoes throughout the forest. It takes me a few moments to realise that it's coming from the District Five tower by the Cornucopia. During his interviews, the kid had mentioned that his father had caused an accident that had killed some people. Even so, I find their cheering sickening. How could you blame a child for the sins of the father? How could you cheer at the death of one of your own? The cheers seem to echo even louder throughout my head, until all other sounds cease to exist, and the world is filled with cheering crowds, screaming in delight at the death of an innocent child.

I barely notice Edrick Quillheart and Alexis Spurling's faces flash by, though my sense of guilt does continue to increase. Both of those two tributes were harmless, although I had seen Quillheart practicing with a scythe very similar to the one now lying next to me, and he had seemed to be quite familiar with it. The damn thing had probably been meant for him, until they decided to go for the whole burning scarecrow aspect to fuck with me. _Poor kids. They deserved better from life. We all did._

The next face though…stuns me. Bianca's face lights up the sky, the lines of text running underneath: Bianca Neve, District Eleven. I choke, shock rendering me immobile as I struggle for breath.

"No." I murmur, getting my breath back. I rise to my feet and stretch my arms upwards, as if I can pull her back down out of the sky. "NO!" My voice grows stronger and I begin to yell this word out over and over, tears streaming down my face.

By the time Anya and Damian calm me down, I'm left a hollow shell, broken, despondent, inconsolable. Underneath my sadness, however, anger begins to grow. Who could have killed someone as innocent as Bianca? Who could…who could…?

SADE! Only she could have done this. Only a Career would kill as innocent a child. Only a monster. I can hear Anya and Damian talking behind me, no doubt worrying about my state of mind, but I don't care, rage burning through me like wildfire. Others would have just left, charging towards the Careers camp, using their anger as a shield, not stopping until they were dead or the Careers were.

That isn't my style though.

I sit there, fuming quietly to myself, planning. Eventually I turn back to Damian and Anya and speak, my voice hoarse and trembling. "You guys should get some sleep. We're going to have to move on in the morning. The Careers are out here somewhere."

They glance at each other, Damian looking particularly wary, until Anya nods slowly to him. "Ok Erik. Wake me up in a few hours, I'll take the next watch."

I acknowledge that I heard her with a grunt, and turn back to the fire. Better that the two of them get a night's rest. Damian's in no condition to move and will need as least that much time to recuperate, and Anya…well Anya needs time to get the rest of the alcohol out of her system. Something is going on between the two of them. Damian's clearly smitten with her, though it's just as clear that she has no idea. I have never seen a guy perfect the "look of adoration" to such an extent that Damian wears every time he looks at her.

Maybe it'd be better if I left them to it. They would hardly appreciate a brooding, angry presence darkening their days. I hear their breathing slow as they fall asleep behind me, the embers glowing in front of me, and I have never felt so alone. A solitary tear travels down my cheek as I picture Bianca in my mind, remembering what she had said during the interviews.

"_I'm very close with my family, I just hope I make them proud. All I want to do is see them again. I want to hold them, and my best friend Winnie, tight and never let them go."_

This echoes throughout my head over and over and over, accompanied by the sounds of cannons and the cheering, the constant triumphant cheering. I begin to weep once more, unable to keep the tears back, unable to forget the pain that courses through me, unable to keep up the façade that I had built up over the last few years. I'm stripped back to my very core, and become, once more, Erik Fiske, watching his father burn on the bonfire, unable to do anything to help. I am weak, helpless, consumed by grief and rage. I am–

"_Scarecrow."_

The raspy whisper echoes throughout the forest, causing birds to take flight from their nesting places in the trees all around us. I walk over to my pack, taking the mask out, holding the grotesque face out in front of me, its features rendered even more hideous in the firelight. In this light, it looks more alive than it had before, even when it had still been attached to its robotic body. Its eyes glitter with malevolence, and it seems to be trying to reach out to me, speaking to me in a way that nothing could through speech. It seems to promise something.

It promised revenge, and fire, and blood.

_Scarecrow._


	48. How to Get a Weapon

**Bronchitis buddies FTW! Now I'm going back to bed I think. So miserable.**

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Hello everyone! First I'd like to say thank-you for allowing Atalanta to progress this far, I was sure she'd be a bloodbath! This is the longest single chapter I've ever written, so I'm giving myself points for it, but it may sound slightly repetitive to some readers. I'm not quite sure since I wrote it but... I also put a poem in the chapter which is supposed to be a promise between Atalanta and her two cousins Arend and Thies. I did write it myself, you can tell because it STINKS. Now, to avoid a long note, I will shut up and let you read.

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**Day 2 Morning/Midday in the Arena**

Atalanta Zimmerman of District Five

by lerontopithecusrosalia

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Take calculated risks. That is quite different from being rash.

— George S. Patton

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A battlefield. Of all the options they had, the Gamemakers chose this? I don't know why I'm surprised. I shouldn't be. Why wouldn't the Gamemakers design an arena that screams war, just to remind us how dependent we are to them? How merciful they are to let us live? Just a few barbed wires and trenches would have been fine. But no, they had to add guard towers with people shooting at us, a mine field, and worst of all, there was nothing at the Cornucopia. Really? Though it was admittedly hilarious to see some really ticked Careers, it would have been so much better if, say, the Cornucopia was sitting there with a heap of supplies, so I could grab a few knives and run. Then, maybe it could explode an hour after launch. Then again, that could just be my eagerness to see some Career faces in the sky.

_Patience, Atalanta. If you want to win, you must know when to strike. A few days of waiting goes a long way._Arend's voice speaks to me so clearly now, it's scary. In all honesty, I'm really nervous about the Gamemakers doing something to the tributes' heads again. Is that why I feel like my dead cousin, a casualty to their stupid games, is right next to me? I can almost feel the weight of his crippled hand on my shoulder, and my smirk vanishes for a second.

_You won't die here, Atalanta. Not as long as you pull yourself through. Remember; you're strong._ Yeah, of course I know that. I don't expect the Gamemakers to be adding my name to the list of tributes past anytime soon. I've got a score to settle. I feel a course of anger run up my arm like a blazing fire that can't be put out as I see Arend's death all over again. I swear if I see any arrows I'll just...

_Rash actions will result in death. Let the anger subside._You'll have plenty of time for destruction later. This time it's Thies's voice that clouds my mind. I can't help but think of my cousin as a hypocrite at his words. Thies was a mess when his brother, Arend, was shot. I don't know what got him angrier; the fact that it was a Career who killed him, an arrogant waste of space, as he would describe it, or how gory it had been. Would the back of the head really have been that bad? I mean, wouldn't you get enough sponsors by killing someone when they least suspect it? I guess I could somewhat justify what Thies had done if that was a part of the reason why he did what he did. Seeing your brother's neck gushing in front of the entire district certainly must have taken a toll on him, but I'm still not eager to forgive him. The truth is, that arrow didn't only kill Arend, it might as well have shot Thies too. It's hard enough to fight the premature want for vengeance without my cousins talking to me. Those two are making avoidance, my decision to refuse the adrenaline pumping through my veins, near impossible. It makes me want to chuck a stick at them.

To get my mind off Arend and Thies, I try to think about the bloodbathed tributes. I count five, but I could be wrong. The District Eleven Female is gone. I don't remember much about her, just the odd fact that she was as pale as print paper, and yet she came from a district where nearly everyone was dark. She seemed relatively easy going too, not particularly strong. I don't think she was truly willing to kill someone, even in a life or death situation. She probably didn't put up much of a fight before she died, which is probably why her face was in the sky, not mine. If I am ever encountered, I can't show fear, sympathy, or any kind of weakness. Especially not the bruise on my hip. Stupid arena.

Alexis Spurling also bit the dust. As bad as it sounds, I'm honestly not surprised. In my defense, she was afraid of anything and everything sharp. Her district must have really hated her. But her death makes me wonder, why did the Careers target the weak first? I'm sure she wasn't stupid enough to stumble right into them. If anything, Alexis probably ran from the Bloodbath. Why don't they save the weaker ones for lone tributes like me, and go after the real threats instead? Take them out before they got a weapon? Not that I care, if they did go by that method, I may not be leaning against this tree. I wouldn't have been able to kill a tribute in the bloodbath anyway.

Not because I'm not mentally prepared, in fact, I feel more ready than ever; the weight of my life has never felt so important. I simply didn't have anything to use in order to do away with them. Unless you count strangulation, in which case it wouldn't be a good idea. To wrap your hands around someone's neck, to see the life squeezed out of their fearful eyes not only kills them, it kills you. Strangling takes too much time. How easy would it be to throw a knife at someone while they were in the process of cutting off an opponent's circulation? Simple.

The District 6 Male never really caught my attention. He seemed too introverted to be of any danger. I was right this time, but I have to be more careful. Jules Surket almost won last year because she slipped under everyone's radar. Someone could be trying to do the same thing. Underestimation might as well be a bloody dagger held in a threatening manner at one's neck. I really should have paid more attention to the other tributes during the training sessions. This lack of knowledge is starting to make me feel vulnerable, like I need some sort of weapon to defend me, but I don't have one... that has to change.

Another thing that requires my attention is food, if I don't get food or something more than catching raindrops I'll be dead within a few days... What is death? The arena is no place for brooding, no place to question what you stand for. You either live or you don't. There is no second place. And you can be sure that I'd rather live with haunting visions and nightmares than have my death broadcasted to the entirety of Panem. A casket seems rather uncomfortable anyway.

I've seen people going home in caskets before. The white faces of family members, the only sign of color being the red tear stains on their cheeks. The prone form of the had been tribute lying in the box, almost as if he were asleep. I imagine Bastian like this, my dead district partner lying in a box, the life drained out of him. He seemed too hopeful, thinking he could take on a powerful pack of careers with only a few months of training, but he wasn't arrogant either. I still wouldn't have wanted to kill him if it came down to it, but not because I didn't want to give my district their show, but because he had little to no chance of making it out alive. It'd be like killing a juvenile mockingjay. Leave birds for their predators, I suspect the Careers did away with him, and they may not know it, but they did me a favor.

A knowing smirk lights up my otherwise blank face as I think about it. Facing Bastian would have been odd. I'm sure I'd still kill him if it was a matter of life or death, but as horrible as it sounds, having him dead already is so much easier. After all, the pressure to end him probably would have done me in. I remember falling asleep the night before launch, hands shaking as the thought of killing someone both confused and terrified me. Now, imagine me being like that in the arena. Another tribute or mutation wouldn't have to deal with me, I'd die of a heart attack.

There was one tribute that did surprise me, though. A dead Career. It seems almost too good to be true, the District Four Male must have not been up to the standards of this year's Career Pack. But it's unlikely that he was. He must have messed with the wrong person too soon and died of gradual blood loss. Proof that underestimation really is a dagger. Nevertheless, the Pack is one member short. Not that it really matters; they're still just as deadly.

Another problem that I didn't really think about; one person can't take down them all. Sure, I could kill a Career if they wandered far enough from the rest of the group. Let me repeat; if. Even if they do slowly put a sufficient amount of distance between them and the others, and I get to each one by one, I really don't have enough time. I know I got on Admire's bad side, and the Careers saw me training. I've made myself a threat. But as long as I don't have a knife, it doesn't matter how accurate I am with one, how far I can throw, how fast or strong I am, I will get caught. As soon as I find water, I don't care how much time I waste, I am searching for a knife. When it starts to get dark, I'll climb up a tree, maybe arrange some leafy limbs in a comfortable manner, and hide, with or without a knife. And then in the morning I'll resume. There is no other option.

I stand up from my position on the tree, and force myself to walk. I need to be alert, ready to pick up even the faintest hints of a fresh pool of water so that I can drink deeply or some sustaining food in this chilling rain. Can sponsors give tributes a map? I don't allow myself to entertain the thought.

_Focus, Atalanta._ I look up at the canopy of trees as the wave in the slow wind, almost like fans as the broad leaves brush against each other. Brilliant greens contrast the deep browns of the tree bark, reminding me of home. Of picking apples with Arend and Thies. Of laughing at Avis's happy go lucky persona. Of debating over the silliest things with Birgitta. Of visiting Lyric and trying to describe what it's like outside. The dream of Lyric that I had the night before training comes back to me as a painful memory. What does she really think of all this? Despite the fact that she might as well live under a rock, Lyric must know that I'm a tribute. Avis and Birgitta wouldn't spare her those details. She may be watching me slowly deteriorate right now... I'm sure she cares. Why wouldn't she? Lyric's told me time and time again that she forgives me for what happened when we were seven, but I guess I haven't forgiven myself.

_You'll never know if you don't find sustenance._ I listen for the tell tale sound of water rushing against rocks, a mist seeping through the trees, some kind of life that is dependent on water, not rainfall. Nothing. I throw a fallen stick in frustration, pretending that I am back home and throwing a knife. I try to contain my anger as I lean against the tree the stick hit, my head screaming to keep moving, but my legs begging for a break, not caring that I've only walked for ten minutes.

_This could be worse. You could be dying a painful death. Humiliated in front of the entire country while being toyed by a Career._I identify the voice as Arend's before rolling my eyes.

_Nothing is more humiliating than dying without a fight._ I start to close my eyes, but shoot open as my hands contact the tree. Wet. The bark is wet. Water. Life. Before I get too excited, I come to my senses. It's on a tree. This is merely rain water on bark. I can't drink it. But if it's rainwater, it must have collected somewhere, right? I look around the forested landscape, desperate to find something, anything really. As long as its liquid... I hear a faint splash as something breaks through the surface of water.

_It could be anything._ I gently remind myself, preparing for disappointment. But eagerness wins over rationality and I find myself rushing towards the sound, not caring if the presence of another tribute is waiting for me. I'm shocked that I still have enough strength to go so fast, though I must be running on pure adrenaline. Good old adrenaline, what would I do without you?

Suddenly, I come to a dead halt. Yes, it is water, just not quite clear enough to be drinkable. I frown in disappointment, the feeling of dehydration slowly coming back. The grass is moist under my feet, taunting my dry tongue. I force myself to look up, but it feels like dragging Avis out of her sleep. Even with Birgitta tugging at her covers with me, Avis's eyes wouldn't open.

_Come on Atalanta, fight_, I think, ashamed at myself for feeling such self pity. _You're so pathetic_. I feel my eyes widen, shocked at my words. They send myself back to years ago, just after witnessing Arend's death on live television.

_I took a large bite out of my apple, letting its juicy substance tickle my taste-buds. Lunch had just begun, and I was enjoying the comforts of solitude, leaning against the corner of the cushioned brick wall as I ate. While I chewed, I felt eyes on me. Judging my every move like I was some sort of rat trying to steal their cheese. Looking up, I saw soft blue irises looking at me with slight worry, before gesturing towards the huge screen plastered on the opposite end of the room._

Arend Namira, District 5 Male_, was displayed in white subtitles under my cousin's pale face before fading. I could see hollowness in his eyes, like he had been emptied of all emotion after witnessing his district partner's gruesome death. Seeing him in such a state made me want to rush up and hug him, remind him that he had something to come home to. Some people eyed me with sympathy; after that Capitol freak came to interview the families of the final eight tributes, people knew Arend and I were related. Even back then, it was hard not to feel anger towards them. I didn't want their sympathy, I needed them to somehow help Arend. Emotions don't get Arend any closer to home. At least not from them._

_Arend walked with a slight limp, still healing from the struggle between his alliance and the Careers a few days before. He had a yellow mark on his arm that screamed "infection," but hadn't received any parachutes. Then the camera panned out, focusing on a bush that Arend was about to walk past. Zooming in revealed that it was a Career, loaded and ready to shoot my cousin._

_My eyes grew wide. I wanted to scream at him, and tell him to run. But all I could do was sit there in a hopeless position, and pray that he would move. But each step, each breath, each beat of his heart only delayed the inevitable. There are always twenty three tributes buying their time, denying the truth, though they know that it will happen. But I didn't think Arend was one of them._

_It happened fast, the Career poked up his blonde head for no more than a second or so, and fired. Arend froze, he could sense something coming, but as he tried to duck, the arrow caught. It went straight through his throat, immediately cutting off any sort of sound. Arend fell down at the sound of a cannon, his eyes still open, even in death. But that wasn't the most despicable thing. With a knife, the Career carved the word_end_on Arend's arm, like he was always a weakling, meant to die from the beginning, which I supposed was true, but it still really hurt, like Arend wasn't the only one he was marking._

_I bit my lip, trying to hold back my tears. But like Arend, I was only delaying it. They soon fell loosely. I stood up, intending to head to the bathroom where I could wash up, only to feel a cold grip on my shoulder._

"_You can't leave, pathetic child." I looked up to see a malicious glare of a peacekeeper, his icy blue eyes were like daggers. "A real fighter would support her cousin, even at his death." His words hurt even more than my heart. Arend always called me that; feisty, spirited, a fighter, but then it felt like his voice was being chewed up and spat at my face._

"_Let me go," I said, pulling myself out of his containment with more strength than I thought I possessed. It was because of the shock that I managed past him, only for the Peacekeeper to reach past and grab my fleeting arm. "Let me go," I repeated, trying to get loose. But his hand only tightened until it felt like I was being chained to a stone._

"_Watch." The peacekeeper used his free hand to make me stare at the replay in painful slow motion, an unmistakable smirk on his lips._

"_Stop!" I begged, watching as the arrow entered Arend's neck. I kicked and squirmed and screamed until I gained almost everyone's attention._

"_She said 'stop.'" My teacher said, walking up to us with crossed arms. "She's already lost her cousin, don't let her lose her freedom too." The peacekeeper scowled at her, but she returned it with an equally intimidating glare. I felt the grip on my hand lighten until I was finally released._

"_Five minutes," he barked._

"_Ten," My teacher responded, sounding just as threatening._

_Their voices blurred as I rushed down the empty hall, pictures of smiling faces, mocking my misfortune. I wanted to rip them and throw each particle in the dirtiest landfill in all of Panem. The bathroom door came far too late for my liking, but as I entered, I saw a girl with bouncy curls eating her lunch. It took my last bit of energy to suppress a groan._

"_Hello," her soft voice echoed against the walls._

'"_How did you get here?" I questioned, hardly being able to understand her luckiness._

"_Hi, my name is Lyric. Oh, what a pleasure it is to meet you," she joked, probably seeing the tear stains. I gave her an odd look, telling her to answer._

"_Okay, okay, I was going to tell you. Just trying to lighten the mood. You look like you were run over by a bus." I bit my lip._

"_Sorry, too soon?" A click of recognition showed in her grey eyes. "Aren't you Arend Namira's cousin?"_

"_The one and only." I sat on the ground, feeling a slight comfort at being able to rest._

"_He didn't..." Lyric didn't finish her sentence, because she didn't have to. Anyone with sense would be able to see the emptiness in my eyes. "I'm so sorry." The sincerity in her voice sounded different than all the other apologies I had received. Lyric really meant it, like she was sympathetic, she knew how it felt._

"_My uncle was killed in the Revolution. I never really knew him, but my father told me stories of what he was like. He may have died before I was born, but it still felt like I lost someone. I can't imagine how much it hurts."_

_I took a deep inhale, closing my eyes, and opening them again to see Lyric picking something up from her tray._

"_Would you like my apple?" I nodded as she came closer, taking the fruit from her without hesitation._

"_Thanks," I said between bites._

"_It's fine." Lyric said. "I usually eat in here when they're showing the Games. The violence makes my breakfast want to have a reappearance. You just have to ask to use the restroom right before lunch, say you're grabbing a tray for a teacher, and then come here."_

"_The servers must not be the sharpest tools in the shed." I laughed._

"_They certainly aren't, being fooled by a simple minded seven year old like me," Lyric said, laughing too. We heard a bell ring, and Lyric quickly disposed of her tray._

"_Come on, you should meet Avis and Birgitta." She opened the door for me, and we quickly exited._

I can't help but smile at the memory. Although it was nine years ago, it is still fresh in my mind. It is the only time I remember Lyric walking, besides when she was knocked down by that dumb tree. Lyric walking. If I won, would the Capitol be able to fix her? I allow myself to entertain the thought before being interrupted by a loud, decisive splash.

I look up to see some... things in the water. One looks like a crocodile of ridiculous length. Seriously, the size of it is so exaggerated that one could probably turn its bright green scales into fifty Capitol handbags. Dark tentacles reach out of the water, as if searching for the one tribute unlucky enough to step in...

I see a glint of silver on some sort of island in the center of the swamp, and my eyes go wide with shock. Knives. Not one, not two, but four are sitting neatly in a sheath, their cruel blades propped up.

Now, I'll admit that I'm a bit more... bold than the everyday District Five tribute, but not stupidly so. You won't see me jumping into murky, muttation infested water, not even for four knives that could very well be the difference between life and death. I'm not going to save them for the Careers or some other lone tribute if that's what you're wondering. I'll get them myself, but in my own time. Right now, I need to know how. How deep the water is. How fast the mutts are. How many mutts I have missed. How much time I would have to get to the island and back without running into trouble?

How.

I don't really know how to swim. Sure, I've read survival books that tell me how to swim, but I've never really had any way to practice it. If the Gamemakers made the water too deep to wade in, I'll just... _calm. I am calm, cool, and collected._Don't give me any of those odd looks, you're not the one swimming in ominously murky water filled with all those creatures that were in your nightmares as a child for something that will probably save your life. But I really don't have time for complaining; I'll have plenty of time to reflect if I win, and sitting here with my arms crossed doesn't get me any closer.

_Okay Atalanta, first order of business. How deep is that muttation pool? And how do you figure it out without becoming breakfast?_

It doesn't take me long to get an idea, what with trees circling around me. I trudge across the spongy ground, and head towards the largest tree I can find. Taking off the two longest branches I can find is a careful business; I don't know how well those mutts can hear, but I'd rather not find out. Yanking the last one from its point of origin, I pause expectantly, as if waiting for something to jump out and grab me. I allow myself a relieved sigh as I continue.

Guess I got lucky. I drag the limbs along, as they are both larger than my body and I really don't feel like carrying them. I'll save my energy for swimming, thank you. The sticks are covered in dirt and grass by the time I reach the muddy bank. I make a note of how slippery the surface is, and that I'll probably trip. Hopefully that demon crocodile doesn't decide to chase me out of the water, because frankly, I'd rather not do a faceplant right into his jaws. I glance over at the tentacled danger, wondering if it could grow feet. _Atalanta, as much as I hate to admit it, now you're just paranoid._I frown slightly, wondering if having silent conversations with myself will become a habit, but even so, at least I'll have someone to keep me company.

_I can't believe I just said that._

After a little more bickering, I make myself focus, trying to time exactly when to test the depth. A flock of deformed birds lands in a grouping of trees on the other side of the swamp, a perfect distraction for the mutant crocodile, who quickly swims over to investigate. He's much more logical than he seems, thinking through before he attacks.

This is bad, a smart fighter is one of the most difficult fighters one could hope to defeat, because they don't just throw punches at your ribcage, or bite your leg like there's no tomorrow, they time each blow, and target your every weakness, forcing you to work with them. Why must these mutts be so indestructible?

With that aside, I take my first clear pass, and place the stick down. It's only then that I hear a decisive snap that I had previously thought was simply a buzz in my ear, an effect from being in the arena for so long. The stick cracks and slips into the water, leaving my attempt to set precautions relatively pointless. A huge muttation that bears a resemblance to an overgrown cannonball shoots out of the water, giving me just enough time to back away before it lands where I was sitting hardly seconds ago.

Really? A snapping turtle mutt that can move faster than scientifically possible? Not to get all nerdy on you or anything, but the speed its going in proportion to its weight and structure should only exist in fantasy novels. But am I in some freakish dream? No, I'm in the First Quarter Quell, and apparently, the limits extend to the end of the Gamemakers' messed up minds. Today I place a non-effective curse on Capitol technology. Whatever goes on in those people's subconscious should seriously stay there.

The turtle lunges at my knees, and a barely dodge it, picking up my spare stick in the process. I drive its sharp end, the part previously connected to the tree, at the mutt's head. It feels like I'm trying to break through steel, and my attempt to weaken it doesn't seem to have any positive effect, if anything, the turtle just seems to get angrier, assuming that's possible. Yeah, well I hate you too, rabid Capitol invention. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a child snuggling a toy version of this while watching me try to kill it.

I know I can't avoid being bitten forever, assuming I stay on the ground, but if I climb a tree... I sprint toward a tree with huge, dirty green leaves and pull myself up, hoping that the turtle doesn't turn out to be Superman too. Much to my displeasure, it manages to follow me, staring at me with hungry eyes before putting its front feet on the trunk and slowly ascending. Don't you just love it when you jinx yourself? Seriously, its agility was magical enough, but climbing? How does two thousand pounds of living body armor manage to get its should-have-been lazy self up a tree without knocking it down?

Claws? No, I think they saved those for the crocodile. Suction pads? Great job Atalanta, now you're going to run into a group of mutated frogs. Unrealistic Capitol programming? Probably. But all things have weaknesses and downfalls. Places where they fall short. This muttation is a strong fighter, but is it a smart one? I must be the cunning one, the resourceful enemy who can win because of a tiny detail that my opponent simply overlooked. Chucking sticks at it wouldn't leave a dent, no matter how many or how hard I threw them. But if I stay in this defensive position, he'll corner me, and... to put it simply, I won't be seeing those pretty knives again.

Then something cool, sticky, and moist falls on my shoulder. Tree sap. It could cover my dehydration and this turtle mut. All I need to do is expose it. With my already dirty hands, I tear at the bark, clawing at it like there's no tomorrow- because there won't be if I fail. After thirty seconds of frantic scratching and pulling, of earning several cuts and sores, the sap trickles down like a steady river, sticking to everything, making climbing up this tree like trying to walk through a patch of quicksand; impossible.

Unfortunately, it's not enough. Instead of falling like I had hoped, the mutation sticks to the tree at a stand still, glaring at me with smoldering amber eyes as its jaws snap in desperation. _Now's your chance._I take a thick branch and stab the turtle's chest, the only vulnerable spot I can think of in its suit of armor, barely avoiding a furious bite.

Finally, karma decides it doesn't hate me anymore, and the mutt lands on its shell, legs flailing in the air as it tries to get up.

"About time," I say with soft laugh, not feeling like attracting more muttations. "What a dud." I smirk at the turtle, enjoying the rush of superiority as I lick my fingers clean of the sap. Suddenly, it chomps, causing me to jump. "What? No need to be a sore loser." I regain my composure and continue on, dragging the stick with me.

This time, I look at the water more closely before testing. Blotches of mud materialize into several leeches, an abnormally large shadow is under the tentacles, and there seems to be unstable ground on the other side, probably meant to drown a tribute in the earthy filth. If I were to stay around here and be attacked,_I'd simply have to lead my opponent over there and... Planning later, weapons now._I shake my head, a content smile forming as I glance back at the glinting knives. Just a few more minutes and I'll feel the cool blade on my bare hand again._Just a few more minutes and I'll be almost guaranteed survival._

I set my stick down to the depths of the murky water and pull it back up, carefully studying the waterline. According to the measurements, the water is around my shoulders. But that should only be the shallowest portion. I'll probably have to swim. A feeling of pure dread creeps up my spine. Of course knives are worth it, but the mere thought of drowning is enough to make me second guess.

_Don't forget who you are._Lyric's voice echoes through my head, and I feel the weight of guilt on my shoulders. _You are Atalanta Zimmerman. You are strong, you are brave, you are daring, you are smart, and you are wise. Don't let them change you._

"Thanks," I mumble, regaining focus. I'm about to cross, only to be interrupted by Arend and Thies.

_Remember the promise._ And then I halt. As if I'd ever forget it. A few months before Arend was reaped, we wrote down an oath of sorts that would be kept between us. Whenever I was in doubt, I'd hum it, or replay the verses in my mind. It is one of the last connections I have to my cousins, like they're still talking to me through the words of our promise.

A bittersweet smile forms on my lips as I descend into the water.

_When darkness seems to outshine the light._

_When hope can't be seen at the end of the tunnel._

_When I don't know wrong from right._

_When I can't find peace through my plight._

_I will stand. I will stand right here._

_And I will fight through the fear._

_With all my might, for what is right._

_Yes I will, until the cannon blows._

_Until the darkness glows._

_While the danger grows,_

_If there is no rope,_

_to give me the second hope,_

_I will still fight for what's right,_

_through the fright and to the light._

_Until the cannon blows._

The water is unbelievably cold, and I almost regret getting in. Almost. I can't expect to win the Hunger Games without a weapon, and a few knives is about as good as it will get. I watch the crocodile carefully, making sure that he is satisfied with the birds. Suddenly, I lose the feeling of silt beneath my feet, and slip under the water.

At first my movements are frantic, hands squirming desperately as I try to get back up. My lungs are gasping for breath, and I feel my time drawing near. I didn't go this far just to drown, did I? No, I'm going to win. I put on a determined expression, relax my expression, and pretend I'm flying. I feel the surface break as I charge through, the air brushing against my cold skin. The first thing I see is the smokey grey sky, but then the crocodile comes into my view. Oh great, all that splashing must have caught his attention. I struggle over to the island as fast as humanly possible, running against the slippery slope as I grab the knives. I'm about to peel off some clinging leeches when a cold circle of water meets my ankles.

_Not even ten seconds? Someone's impatient._I sprint to the other side, plunging in the dirty water. I'm about halfway across when he gets me. No amount of kicking or punching or squirming is able to help me escape from his jaws, which close around my abdomen. I'm forced under the water, nausea creeping up my spine.

Ever wonder what it would be like to be one of those clothes on a running washing machine? Well that's what it feels like now. Dizzy, water swirling around my face at about one hundred miles per hour, give or take, as I'm pulled into a death roll. _Come on Atalanta, two mutations in one day. Why not?_ My fingers grip around one of my knives, and although I can't see anything, I can sense the crocodile's dark presence. Where he thrashes my prone body like a ragdoll. The water currents are like preschoolers, tattling on his exact whereabouts. As my eyes are about to roll in the back of my head, I slam my knife into his throat. The grip on my chest weakens, but I'm still caught. One blade to the eye and he's a goner.

I struggle through the water, and eventually make it to dry land. Gasping for air, I settle on the muddy ground, chest throbbing at an unhealthy rate. With my remaining two knives, I peel off the leeches, throwing them as far away as my weakened arm will allow, and direct my attention toward the deep, bleeding gash on my abdomen. I remember from first-aid books that incisions normally don't get infected, but need constant pressure to slow bleeding, so I pull some leaves off of a fading bush and wipe their moisture on my pants before placing them on my wound. Don't give me any weird looks; I'm sure you'd be wary of touching your own blood bare-handed. As an extra precaution, I move the leaf, rub some water over the wound, and then put it back on. Hopefully it won't need stitches.

_Hey, if it does, all you have to do is win faster._Right. When I heal, I'll be almost undefeatable. But in the Hunger Games, almost may not be enough. Everyone has pressure points, weak spots in their memory, emotions, or physical strength that can be preyed upon, even I do. Often, a Victor is called so is because their opponents failed to find these pressure points in time. The bloodbathed tributes had obvious weaknesses, but as the game progresses, these spots will become less and less clear. I need to pay careful attention from here on out if I plan on winning. Their weakness will be my power.


	49. Automatonophobia

_**Enjoy! Would have put this up earlier but we were doing Christmas Stuff...**_

_**Wonder what Anya has been up to. Not to mention somethign very evil is coming very, very soon...**_

* * *

_**Anya Powers of District 8**_

_**Day 2, Evening/Night**_

_**by nightfuries**_

* * *

_**TROY: Let me ask you something. People have been calling me about this jacket since I got here but if I take it off to make them happy, that just makes me weak, right?**_

_**JEFF: Listen: it doesn't matter. You lose the jacket to please them, you keep it to piss them off. Either way, it's for them. That's what's weak.**_

_**-Community, Pilot**_

You know, most tributes here in this arena are probably terrified out of their minds, trying desperately to find some meager cover and hide out from this horror show that's come to life all around them. And, to be fair, things _are_ pretty horrific. What, with the bombs and the barbed wire, the planes swooping through the air while guards who appear to be from our own districts are running around trying to kill us. Yep, when you say it that way, it certainly sounds like a living nightmare none of us will ever wake up from. Though I, on the other hand, actually find comfort in the occasional reminder to myself that I'm stuck in the 25th annual Hunger Games battlefield arena. That way, when I look out at the dead bodies littering the ground, the explosions going off left, right and centre, I can remind myself that things like this are only natural here, that I'm not hallucinating or anything crazy like that. It's nice to be certain of things like that.

The little imp that sits on my shoulder banging a gong at repeated intervals with its pudgy little hands however, makes it slightly harder to remind myself I'm not crazy.

"Damn it, go _away_," I mutter through gritted teeth, but the tiny creature just laughs and dances up onto my head, still banging away at its ear-piercing instrument and sending resounding waves of pain through my brain. Add that to my steadily climbing fever, the frequent tremors in my hands, the sweating, nausea and occasional vomiting and you've got yourself quite the party.

I hate being sober.

My leg convulses suddenly and I pitch forwards, only just managing to regain my balance by using Damian to steady myself. The two of us have been hobbling off after Erik all day, my arm around my district partner supposedly to help him walk with his injured leg. However, thanks to my rapidly worsening withdrawal symptoms, I've probably been using him as a crutch just as much as he has me. It's a miracle we've been able to keep up with Erik, even an injured Erik, so far; though I suspect our District 11 ally has also been taking it easy on us, slowing the pace in order to adjust to our delirious/injured stumble. I can tell the speed (or rather, lack thereof) bothers him though – I don't even want to think about how easy a target we are right now – but he doesn't say anything, either because he's a good person who's learned after a life of one terrible circumstance after another that complaining doesn't get you anywhere, or he's preoccupied with something else. I'm guessing a bit of both; the death of his district partner in the bloodbath hit him hard, and he's been jumpy and agitated ever since our first night in the Games. Who wouldn't be, especially when the three of us are probably right up there on the Careers hit list; Erik's high training score and previous enmity with the girl from Two as well as Damian's obvious prowess at certain skills (rumour going around was that he threw his training score. No idea if it's true and, as his district partner and ally, I don't have to worry so I don't really care) don't go well together when trying to go unnoticed by a band of notorious killers. As for me, well, I've been told rather often that merely my presence can invoke murderous thoughts so that just gives the Careers one more reason to hate us.

From beside me, I hear a sharp gasp, and seconds later we're pitching forwards again. Having just obtained a very delicate, shaky balance myself, I'm unable to hold the both of us up, and Damian and I go plunging headfirst into the muck that sits below our shoes. For a moment, my vision goes blank as dirt coats my face and as I try furiously to rub the mud from my eyes, I find it slithering up towards me of its own accord, hardening as it goes and trapping me in a cocoon or solid rock. I give a small shout of surprise and bat away at the advancing sludge, furiously reminding myself that it's not real, it's not real, it's not real. Or maybe it is; maybe this is some sort of crazy Gamemaker trap designed to trap unsuspecting, withdrawal-suffering tributes. Honestly, I'd rather it was – I'd probably look like less of an idiot that way. Last year, it was stinging, venom-filled tracker jackers; this year, it's lack of alcohol causing the hallucinations. The Capitol just _loves_ watching people go crazy, doesn't it?

Erik stops and turns just in time to watch me finish slapping furiously at my legs, the mud now returning to its usual, inanimate self, while Damian leans against a nearby tree alternatively clutching his thigh and his foot and gritting his teeth firmly together to keep from making any indication of the agony he's in. Honestly, I think he must have sworn some sort of Thief's Oath of Quietness, because I've never heard the guy make any unnecessary or loud noise, and the sound of his footsteps is practically non-existent. For my part, I've tried to keep my moans and groans to myself, but I've never felt this level of pain before and unfortunately I don't think I'm doing quite as good a job of grinning and bearing it as I would like. Which bothers me, because aside from the relatively minor bloodbath injuries I sustained, I shouldn't have anything to complain about; it was my own idiocy that caused this other multitude of agony. Every time I let loose any sort of sound of pain, it makes me think that I'm weak, that I can't handle this. Totally not true, of course. It just makes me feel that way sometimes. Almost like I'm letting myself down. Like I'm not living up to the expectations of my mo-

No, we're not doing that. You feel down because you're going through major withdrawal Anya, not because of _anything_ else. You can complain _all_you want. You're just here to be the funny drunk person, after all. You have nothing to prove. Nothing to live up to.

Nothing.

"You two alright?" Erik asks gruffly, watching our sad attempts at getting back on our feet. Usually he'd stoop down to help us, but after repeating that same gesture at least thirty times today, I can see how it might get somewhat irksome. Not to mention that he keeps glancing distractedly at his backpack, something I really feel like I should ask him about. But I'm kind of busy with my own crazy delusions here.

"Fine," Damian says; at least, I think he says. Through the gritted teeth it's hard to tell. But he still manages to struggle his way up, leaning heavily on the tree with one hand while the other furtively tries to wipe away the sweat beading at his brow. "Let's keep moving."

"You really up to it?" I ask, my own body also tense with pain as another wave of agony storms through my head.

"Oh, I can go _all_night," he answers, though it's hard to tell whether or not he's being sarcastic.

Erik seems to be having the same problem, and has turned his attention away from his pack and back to his injured ally, scrutinizing him closely. After a minute though, he seems to pick up on the same lesson I learned after about five minutes of talking with Damian – that is, if he doesn't want you to know something, just put it out of your mind because you will never, _ever_ get it out of him by talking to or looking at him – and turns to me instead. "Can you keep going?"

I stare at him up from the mud, dirt covering my face, legs twitching spastically in all directions and the little imp from before settling back onto my shoulder, clutching _cymbals_ in its dirty little hands this time (though Erik probably can't see that last bit). And honestly, I want to answer yes, I really do. Actually no, I really don't, but still, it seems like it'd be the right thing to say. Not that I've ever been good at saying the right thing; and unfortunately for me I can no longer use the excuse that served me so well in such situations where I'd blurt out bad answers and worse insults. _Damn._ "No, I really can't." I make a move to get up but after a glance at my shaking arm I give up and just sink back into the mud. "Can we just camp here for the night? It's getting dark anyways."

It's true; the light is fading fast from the arena, bringing about our second night of the Games and filling tributes with dread at the unknown horrors that await them in the dim hours that follow sunset. My District 11 ally is no exception. "The Careers will be heading out to hunt," Erik says, fingering his scythe nervously between his fingers – seriously, he's the one with the scythe and _he's_ nervous. "We can't risk getting found."

"Please, I'm sure they hunt no matter what time of day it is." I blow a few strands of hair out of my face, which were beginning to undulate like miniature snakes. "I mean, could you imagine that guy from Two ever taking a break?" Our three training days may have been a bit fuzzy to me, but that particular Career still managed to make an impression on me. And just the thought of Jet lying down to sleep makes me want to laugh; more likely he just sits there with his eyes open, twitching, planning the demise of other tributes and doing whatever crazy people do. Huh; before, I always proudly counted myself in the group of tributes participating in these Games that _weren't_ crazy; but now, as I wince yet again thanks to that freaking imp clanging its instruments together, I may be forced to rethink that idea. "Anyways, now's as good a time as any to stop."

I look back up at Erik as I say those last words, my already tricky eyesight starting to waver in and out of focus just to make things _more_difficult, but the expression on my ally's face still manages to register in my mind. I mean, he still looks calm and collected like usual, but there's something else; something flickering in his eyes. Almost like . . . fear. And something not entirely unlike insanity.

_Well, it makes sense_, I think to myself. _Him being a giant target for the Careers and all. There's some sort of history going on between him and the girl from Two, and I'm sure she could manage to convince her allies to go hunting for him. After all, the Careers would never turn down a target. They'd just-_

Wait; am I _thinking_?

It's almost like beyond the fever, beyond the nausea, sweating and even the resounding headache torturing my brain, there's this, this . . . _clarity_. Something I always used to blot out with alcohol. Something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.

It's awful.

I _really_ hate being sober.

"Fine," Erik says, eyes darting back the way we came as though he's expecting a Career to pop out and any second. Needless to say, one does not. "Alright," he starts again, tone less harsh with worry this time. "We'll stop here."

"Excellent," I say, allowing my head to sink back into the pile of mud under me with a disgusting _squish_. It's kind of nice though; if I close my eyes, I could almost imagine it being regular, District 8 dirt from back home, the kind the group and I always had to wallow in back in the alleys. Yep, it'd be just like old times, if I could get this nagging sense of sobriety out of my head.

Erik sets his pack down and Damian slides back to the ground, not entirely able to hide the look of relief on his face as the pressure is taken off of his injured leg. Vaguely I hear Erik say he'll take first watch, and I think I murmur some sort of agreement before my vision completely fades to black.

Normal nightmares are bad. Tracker jacker-induced nightmares, the kinds tributes suffered through last year, are even worse. But the flat-out, hands down winner of the Most Terrible Way to Spend Your Night Contest is the verging-on-insanity withdrawal hallucination/nightmare. Not pleasant; not pleasant _at all_.

It starts out normal enough – well, normal for a dream, anyways. Damian, Erik and I are on a beach, of all places; and now, I've never been to a beach before, but I'm pretty sure they don't have purple sand and water that seems to give off the delightful smell of a certain _other_ liquid I love so much. There's nothing I want more than to run to the ocean seemingly made of alcohol and drink it all until I'm lost in that comfortable state of bliss and irresponsiveness again, but when I try to move my legs, I find them trapped under a thick, solid layer of sand, with Damian and Erik continuously adding more pails of the weird purple grains on as I watch. "Guys, stop," I say, but they don't seem to hear me, merely continuing their work of imprisoning me. "Guys, let me up." I sigh heavily and bat away Erik's hand, causing the little red shovel he holds to fall to the ground, carrying its load of sand with it. He and Damian both stop immediately and stare at it, then slowly turn to me; a disconcerting gesture, sure, but there's an ocean of alcohol not a meter away from me and I couldn't care less about anything but trying to get at it. "Let me up," I repeat slowly to them, feeling like I'm talking to a pair of five-year-olds. "I want a drink."

They just continue to watch me dreamily, their dazed eyes seeming to grow in bewilderment at my words. "But there's no more," Erik says innocently, and Damian nods, a ridiculous grin growing on his face. I frown, confused, before it dawns on me and I turn back to the ocean, only to find it gone, a barren wasteland in its wake. Words cannot describe the utter despair I felt as I gazed over the dry purple sand, completely devoid of any sort of liquid, alcoholic or otherwise. I was devastated.

And yes, I realize that to most anyone other than myself, this dream would be completely laughable. _You count THAT as a nightmare?_people would say, probably with a derisive snort or an accompanying eye roll. _Please, get your priorities straight!_

Let me tell you, it gets worse.

As I stare at what was once a symbolic ocean of hope, I begin to notice a slight tremor in the ground. At first it's just a few shakes and spasms, not unlike those running up and down my arms and legs earlier, but then it escalates, the convulsions growing larger and larger until the sand covering my leg cracks like an eggshell and I'm nearly thrown down the length of the beach. Scarily enough, neither Damian nor Erik seem to be affected by the jolting ground beneath them; the two remain on their knees in the sand, both wearing dreamy half-smiles, Damian still clutching a tiny blue pail with yellow bananas painted on it. I'm just about to shout at them to wipe those idiotic looks off their faces and do something productive when my attention is suddenly drawn away from my motionless allies and back towards the desolate desert before me. Cracks are running through the length of the sand, the ground parting as slowly, eerily, clawed hands reach out to pull themselves out of the dirt. I stumble back in shock, but some invisible force prevents me from running further and I'm forced to watch as one by one, my opponents begin to crawl out of the place where my happiness died.

Canicus. Admire, Sade, Roulla, Con. Crazy Jet. The equally crazy District 12 male, Lucian. The insane girl from Three. And then the others, less intimidating in real life but almost worse in dream form – the girl from Eleven, Erik's deceased district partner, looked so innocent during the brief occasions where I spotted her during training; now, however, her eyes are dead and cold, fingers that seem more like talons reaching out towards our little alliance. And that's when I notice something odd. At first I dismiss it – there's kind of more crazy stuff going on right now – but as my eyes scan each tribute I notice that they all share the same trait; strange red lines are raising up from their arms, disappearing into the sky above. "Um, guys?" I ask, looking from Damian to Erik as though I expect one of them to have the answer to this craziness; in hindsight, kind of a stupid idea. They're pretty obviously a part of these bizarre events, and a big part at that; no way would Erik ever be caught with such a ridiculous grin on his face in real life.

Instead of answering, they just do their creepy, synchronized head movement, both turning to look at me at the exact same time and my heart skips a beat as I realize their eyes are completely dead as well, sockets haunted by black, unseeing orbs. Or maybe not so unseeing; I get the unsettling feeling that they're watching everything I do as they continue to sit in the sand, not even acknowledging the presence of the other tributes. Finally, Erik speaks up. "Puppets."

I stare at him, attempting to swallow the knot building in my throat. "W-what?"

"Puppets," Damian echoes, and his grin grows. "Aren't we all?"

I don't even have time to shudder at the ominous tone in his words, because seconds later something ten times more disgusting than I ever could have possibly imagined happens. Both boys raise their arms and it almost looks like red strings are peeling away from them; then cold seeps through me and my heart completely stops as I realize what it actually is. The _veins_. The veins in their arms are somehow rising away from them, snaking up into the sky to join with what I now realize to also be the veins of the other tributes, thin red strands that hold them aloft like, like . . . puppets. And that's when the clouds above clear and I get a true view of the ones controlling all this, the ones behind these sick, disgusting events. The puppet masters.

The Gamemakers.

"Well," one of them says, a female I recognize to be the head of the group and though I never bothered to learn her name, her bright red hair would be hard to forget. "Aren't you going to do something?"

"Oh, yes," another says, or maybe it's a clone of the first one, they look so alike. "Surely you're not just going to sit by and watch this, are you?"

I can't even stutter in horror; my entire throat feels like it's been barred off, allowing no room for sound to get through. All I can do is watch in horror.

"So much fun to play with," the first woman practically purrs, hand gliding towards a string of red nearest her and grasping it delicately between her index finger and thumb; one sharp tug sends the terrifying dream version of Eric into a deranged twirl. "Especially when they know how to play themselves."

"Sad how some don't make it far," the clone repeats and suddenly some strings that so easily defied gravity before fall, causing their respective bodies to collapse along with them. Bastian Estatika, Bianca Neve, Edrick Quillheart, Con Rossencourte, Alexis Spurling.

"Even sadder are those who could make it far, but are held back." The Head Gamemaker's piercing eyes suddenly lock with mine, and as much as I pray my vision'll go all crazy again and start fading in and out of darkness, it remains crystal clear, forcing me to stare right back at the woman. "Held back by dead weight."

"Dead weight," the clone agrees, playing with one of Damian's strings and causing him to twitch.

"They could do better," the leader says, and though she doesn't specify, I know exactly who she's talking about.

"So much better," the other adds, smiling down at Erik and Damian.

"You have the tool to be a contender, and yet you refuse to use it."

"Refuse to use it."

A new sensation fills me at their words, not the seeping cold of fear, but of dread. I know exactly what they're talking about. And sure enough, said "tool" materializes on the beach in front of me, glistening in the sunlight and beckoning me close with promises of a quick win and painless life as a victor after these Games. But still I hesitate, a lifetime spent avoiding this exact scenario preventing my hand from moving forward and taking the object within my grasp. I can't do this; I won't go this far. I'm too close to her as is.

The moment the item appeared on the ground before me, I completely forgot about the deranged puppet masters and their victims, but the Head Gamemaker quickly reminds me of her presence with a question I don't feel I have a justified answer to. "Why don't you use it?"

"Why?" the clone echoes.

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?!"

"Why?!"

"WHY?!"

"WHY?!"

"Ahh!"

I shoot upwards from my spot in the mud, heart racing and visions of the lookalike Gamemakers still dancing in my vision, their question still repeating itself over and over again in my mind at increasingly louder intervals, each shout of the word corresponding with another wave of pain rolling through my head. I grit my teeth and place my hands over my ears, willing their accusing voices to disappear. After what seems like hours, they finally begin to die down, though the pain in my brain shows no sign of stopping. Still, _that_I can bear. Slowly, I let my hands fall back to the ground beside me, and as they do it causes a slight shift in the jacket making up part of my tribute uniform and I feel the slightest of pressures as something brushes against my rib cage, hidden well within the folds of material. The thing I really should tell Erik and Damian about, but can't bring myself to because then I'd be forced to use it.

It.

_The bloodbath. Before seeing the creepy Twelve guy and the girl from Four, who seemed immensely bothered about my being drunk. Right, I was drunk. Drunk during the bloodbath. Stupid. So stupid. And so, so wonderful._

_Everything hazy, foggy. Probably just the alcohol. Noise to my left. And I see . .. him. A solider, not a tribute. Ready. Ready to kill me. So I-_

Uh uh; no way. Man, if there's anything I hate more than thinking, it's _remembering_. Usually a few drinks carried that peace off on a wave of blissful ignorance; too bad now I don't have that option.

_Damn_, I hate being sober.

Well, one thing's for sure; I'm certainly in no mood to experience _that_dream of horrors again. Or the memories of the bloodbath either. Sliding my hand quickly under my jacket and repositioning the object so that it doesn't reside close enough to my skin to touch (and more importantly, won't remind me of anything unpleasant) and trying to ignore the voices of the two Gamemakers in my head, which have returned and settled with cackling madly – preferable to the relentless interrogation, but not by much. What I need, is a distraction. One that is currently taking the form of my District 11 ally, who's sitting on a rock nearby and surprisingly didn't seem to notice my little outburst after I awoke. Damian didn't stir either, which might be even more shocking – I guess his injuries really did take their toll, and he was long overdue for a good rest.

"I can take over, if you want." Erik jumps as I speak and whirls around to face me, scythe whipping around along with the rest of him. I lurch back and away from the deadly weapon, but my reflexes, never great, have been less than adequate as of late, and a good ten seconds pass between the moment when the blade comes swinging inches from my stomach and the point when I finally register that I should back up. Lucky I wasn't standing any closer, or our alliance would have been cut down in size. "Whoa, there. I surrender."

Erik realises he's currently pointing a very nasty-looking blade at what's supposed to be his ally and quickly drops the weapon, muttering, "Sorry," as he goes; though I notice none of the tenseness leaves his shoulders and his eyes still flicker from side to side nervously. "I thought you might be someone else."

"Nope, just Anya Powers." I settle down on the rock next to him, making sure to sit on the _other_ side of the hand holding his scythe; wouldn't want to accidentally get my head loped off Erik thought he heard a suspicious noise or sneezed or something. "The one and only." I manage a grin, trying to lighten the mood. "Population of Panem's ever thankful for that last bit. Though I guess they still thought it was one too many. Hence my being here." I glance up at Erik, hoping at least to see a small change in those hazel coloured eyes, but my lame attempt at humour did nothing to put him at ease; he still looks worried, twitchy and, above all else, guilty. Which is stupid; he did nothing during the bloodbath (that I know of), probably couldn't have saved his district partner if he tried. _He_didn't kill someone. _He_ shouldn't be going through all this.

See, it's at times like these when depriving us of alcoholic beverages is beyond cruel and reaches levels of just plain sadistic. I can guarantee you Erik would be _much_ better off with a few drinks in him to lift the mood and fog his memory.

"Anyways, I can take over for you." He looks up halfway through the process of turning back to his pack (which seems to be a huge distraction for him lately), startled. "On watch, I mean. Get some sleep." I try to put on what I hope is a responsible-looking expression but his eyes narrow suspiciously and I can tell I didn't entirely succeed in convincing him I'm feeling well enough to be on the lookout for Careers, mutts and other nasty things. Any other time I would have responded to his disbelief that I can do the job with some sort of sarcastic comment, but right now I'm just glad he's feeling something other than depressed. Of course, a good ally would probably try and talk to him, get him to express his feelings before saying something reassuring to him in return. Well, I'm fresh out of reassuring things to say. And as for the good ally part . . .

"_Even sadder are those who could make it far, but are held back. Held back by dead weight."_

"_They could do better."_

I barely manage to resist grounding the heels of my hands into my temples and plug my ears to get rid of the mocking voices. As it is, I think my eye starts twitching, which causes Erik to raise an eyebrow; but then again, he hasn't exactly been the most relaxed person of late, so there's not much he can say about it. "You alright?"

"Oh, fine." I'm about to add sarcastically that I just _love_ being stuck in battlefields with more than a dozen murderous children out for my blood, but I have a feeling Erik would take it literally and sink back into his somber mood once again at the thought, so I refrain. And suddenly it hits me; I think this is the first time ever, in my entire life, that I have stopped myself from saying the first thing that comes to mind. Before I always had the excuse that I was a child and "didn't know any better," and when I grew up alcohol became my chief scapegoat. Now, unfortunately, I'm without either justification. "Look, you need sleep. And I need not to sleep. Let me take over; I swear I won't start yelling at hallucinations and miss the real threats or anything."

Maybe it's the look in my eyes or the desperation painted all over my face; heck, maybe Erik's just tired. But for whatever reason, after another minute or two of looking me up and down and wondering if it really is such a smart idea to put the drunken idiot on watch, he just sighs wearily. "Alright."

"Really?" He nods, though he's already beginning to look like he's regretting it. "Great!" I start to relax and get as comfortable as I can on top of the rock, but then realize Erik's still watching me with an expression on his face that clearly says _what was I thinking_? So, in an effort to make myself seem more impressive and helpful, I shoot back up into a ramrod straight sitting position, narrowing my eyes and scanning the forest around us before looking to Erik for approval. Well, I'm sure District 11 has its own customs different to the ones I'm familiar with, but even there I highly doubt receiving an eye roll in return for ones actions is a good thing. Still, Erik must be feeling better if he's able to make a sarcastic gesture like that. "Don't worry, I'll do great!" I say to his retreating back as he walks away to find a relatively comfortable patch of ground to sleep on.

I swear I see the ghost of a smile play across his lips as he lies down. "I'm sure."

"And I swear I'll complain less when we set out again in the morning!"

He just waves a hand in response and settles down to sleep, though I can see the worried look in his eyes that I know I'll be getting every time I lay down to rest now. It's a look that clearly says _please,_please_don't let there be any nightmares tonight._

I wonder if the other tributes are having it this tough. I can't imagine the Career alliance is getting along better than ours would; from what I remember, they all seemed ready to jump at each other's throats the moment they ran out of other innocent tributes to kill. Plus there's the fact that the guy from Four died right at the beginning of the Games; it's enough to give me hope that maybe the supposed "big threats" this year aren't actually going to be all that threatening. Mind you, there's still crazies like Lucian that could be a problem, and all these lucky children who seem to have come into the arena already talented at weapons and survival skills. See, this is why our district hardly ever had a victor. Hey, you live in Four? Great, you'll already be skilled with a trident! Live in Six? No problem; you'll be great with medicine and healing! Live in Eight . . . yeah, no, sorry; you're screwed. Good luck finding a tribute who'll sit there and let you sew them to death.

_But that's all going to change,_I think to myself, subconsciously raising my arm to take a drink from the bottle that's almost always been present in my hand. You can imagine my disappointment when I realize it's not there. _This year, District 8'll have a victor. There's no way anyone in this arena could possibly take out the amazing, butt-kicking, extremely perceptive Anya Powe-_

"Hey, Anya."

"Ahh!"

For the second time that night, I let out a shout (which, considering where I currently am, probably wasn't the smartest thing to do) and whirl around, coming face to face with the amused, obnoxious smile of none other than my district partner. "Holy shit!" I manage to get out once my heart drops back from my throat into my chest. "_What was that_?"

Damian raises an eyebrow, still wearing that annoying grin. "You mean the 'hey, Anya'? A greeting, I believe. Usually responded to with another sort of greeting, such as 'hi, Damian' or 'nice to see you,' but if you prefer the profanities, then I guess-"

"Oh, shut up," I say, putting a hand to my temple; my loud outburst caused the pain in my head to spike and now it's pounding around my skull like a drum beat. Maybe Damian notices, because his mocking smile softens slightly and he eases himself onto the rock next to me. I wait for the agony to subside, desperately wracking my brain for some sort of witty comeback to say, but surprisingly it can be rather hard to focus when the leaves in the trees have started to change colours and dance before your eyes. Damn hallucinations. "And that was completely unnatural."

"What?" He looks at me, a slight grin already creeping back onto his face. "The 'hey, Anya'?"

"No," I snap back. "Your walking over here without making any noise whatsoever. Seriously, do your feet even _touch_the ground when you walk?"

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "Of course. I just happen to be naturally stealthy." He grins slyly at me. "And you're one of the most unobservant people I've ever met."

"Am not!"

"Really? So, can you tell me where your token is right now?"

"What? Of course! It's right-" My hands go to my neck, where the ever-present, fraying thread of my necklace used to be. However, its presence is now distinctly lacking. My whole body tenses at the thought of my losing it, and my head swivels from side to side as I search the dark, dirty forest floor for any hint of Mom's old pendant. Then my eyes land on my district partner, casually twirling something in his hand and staring at me with a barely concealed grin. "Oh, ha, ha, ha," I say, trying to fit as much sarcasm into my tone as is humanly possible. "Hilarious." He just grins as I snatch it out of his hands and drape the necklace back around my neck – though I have to admit, a small part of me (_very_ small part, mind you) is a _tiny_ bit impressed that he managed to grab it without my even noticing. As I'm sure you're all aware by now, it takes an awful lot to get one over Anya Powers.

Well, I'm certainly glad I didn't say _that_ out loud. Just the thought of Damian's potential response makes me want to smack him.

"It's a nice token," he says, as I make sure the pendant has been returned once more to its proper place. "Where'd you get it?"

Okay, that is most definitely _not_ something I want to talk about right now; not after he snuck up on me, revealed to the world I was wearing Mom's necklace and reminded _me_ of the fact as well, which, with the arrival of _it_ is something I definitely don't need right now. "Why don't we talk about _your_ token instead?" I say back, the combination of irritability from withdrawal and anxiety at the Games putting more of an edge on my voice than I'd intended. Even the words are just enough to make him feel bad; I never saw any evidence that Damian carried a token and after Caesar questioned him about it and he harshly declined answering, I'd assumed it was a bit of a sore spot for him. Mind you, he hadn't exactly jumped at the chance to answer _any_ of the interviewer's questions, so I hadn't assumed it was too big a deal, but his reaction says otherwise. The grin on his face drops so quickly it makes me question whether it was ever there in the first place, and all mischievous light in his eyes extinguishes, leaving behind a cold, angry glare that tells me I just touched a nerve I _really_ should have left alone. For a moment I wonder if he's going to argue or tell me off or shout at me, but then he just turns away abruptly, leaving a frigid, awkward silence in his wake. Just for the sake of not looking like an idiot and continuing to stare at his back, I look away too, but the quiet starts to get at me, as well as this nagging feeling like I did something wrong and now must right it. Well, how the heck do I go about doing that? Out of habit, I open my mouth to apologize for my drunken behaviour, but the sad memory that that excuse is no longer valid floats into my mind and leaves me floundering for something else to say. "So . . . couldn't sleep?"

Lame, yes. And on a scale of one to ten, it probably hovers near the two range as far as fixing my conversation mistake goes. Hey, at least I didn't comment on the weather. I turn to look over at my district partner and for a second, it almost seems like he won't respond and stick to being angry, but then our eyes meet and he smiles slightly. "Well . . . not after seeing you were the only one on watch."

"Hey!" I say indignantly, slapping him on the arm, though I'm holding back a grin myself. "I'll have you know I . . . I . . ." He raises an eyebrow at me, still smiling, and I sigh. "You know what, I'd try and say something back to that, but I don't think I have much room to argue."

"After letting me sneak up on you so easily?" He shakes his head. "No, definitely not."

After a few more snickers and chuckles, we go quiet, falling into a silence I once would have considered "comfortable," back when I was filled with the delights of alcohol. Now, however, I keep getting this disturbing feeling that there's something more behind the absence of speech, an almost barely perceptible awkwardness; though not like the one before. This one feels more . . . I don't know . . . different? Argh, why is life so complicated? Honestly, the world would be a lot better off if we all just went around drunk.

"So . . ." At the sound of his voice, I turn back to Damian, who's watching me with an almost apprehensive look in his eyes, so different from the sarcastic, amused look that was there before. What's with the sudden change? "How're you holding up?"

Well, his words don't really give me any indication of the switch in attitude. I frown, confused (and in pain). "You mean with the withdrawal?" I snort. "Oh, just _great_."

He smiles again, and the awkward look in his eyes diminishes slightly. "Yeah. Guess you regret not listening to your mentor's advice regarding drinking now, huh?"

"What?" I look at him sharply. "How do you know what Taf told me?"

"I didn't. I was just hoping that anyone smart enough to win the Games would know to tell their alcoholic tribute to stop drinking _before_ they went into the arena."

"Oh." Hate to admit it, but when he puts it that way, it _does_ make sense. Still, not like I'm going to tell him that. "Well, just so you know: I don't. Much. And besides, you don't necessarily have to be smart to win the Games."

"Yeah, you would be hoping that."

"And what exactly is _that_ supposed to mean?" I say indignantly as he chuckles. It takes a few seconds for his words to truly make sense in my pain-riddled brain (hey, that's actually pretty good for me. If I was drunk, it would have taken _hours _to understand) and the dawning realization must have shown on my face because he laughs again. "Jerk," I add, slapping his shoulder once more.

"Hey," he says, waving my hand away as I go to whack him again. "You can't hit an injured person."

"You deserve it," I shoot back, trying to maintain a serious face and failing utterly. "And if you ask me, a few more of those administered in your early childhood _might_ have caused you not to grow up to be such a jerk."

It was a joke; it was meant _entirely_ as a joke. I was even smiling while I said it. But all of a sudden, the instantaneous change from my grinning, joking district partner to the cold, harsh thief happens, the switch in his expression so different I'd swear he was a different person. _Shoot, did I say something wrong AGAIN? Seems to be happening a lot lately._ Though after another second of looking at him, I can tell this is different than when I mentioned his token. Similar, but whatever I just said is on a much, _much_ larger scale of awfulness. Why, I can't possibly fathom; I didn't say anything wrong.

Did I?

"Damian, look," I start to say as he turns firmly away from me and stands from the rock, starting to walk away. Damn it, what did I do? "I'm sorry, really, I am, I just don't understand . . ."

_And if you ask me, a few more of those administered in your early childhood might have caused you not to grow up to be such a jerk._

Oh.

_Oh_.

Crap.

"You really are the best person to come up with the worst things to say, aren't you?" he says, stopping near the edge of our clearing and refusing to look at me.

"Sorry," I say quickly, inwardly cursing myself/praying a bottle of alcohol will magically fall out of the sky and somehow magically fix this. I mean, what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to _do_? Sure, we had a lot of kids with problems at home join the group for a little while, but no one ever wanted to _talk_ about it; bringing up your problems kind of defeats the whole purpose of running away from them in the first place. Needless to say, I've never exactly been in this position before. "Want to . . . um . . . talk about it?"

A moment ago, the two of us were laughing easily at harmless jokes; now though, the laugh that comes from my district partner is sharp and cruel. "Talk about it?" He turns, as though expecting me to be joking, but I'm honestly completely at a loss at what to do in this situation. Pat him on the back? Give him a hug? Send him a gift basket? He shakes his incredulously and finishes harshly with, "No, I don't want to talk about it."

"Hey, just asking," I say back, with a bit more irritation in my voice than should have been there. What? All the harsh tones were starting to elevate the pain in my head; not to mention the ground is starting to rock like a boat deck. _Really_ not helping the situation. "So . . . what do you want to do?"

He stares at me, and for a second he really seems completely at a loss; he looks almost . . . younger. Like a little kid who never managed to get over his less-than-perfect childhood. But as soon as I see it, it's gone, and the cold expression is back in place. "Well, I certainly don't want to _talk_ about it."

"Then let's stop talking about it."

"Yes, let's. And let's hope you start thinking before you talk."

"You know, I'm pretty sure we're still on the same subject."

He throws his hands up in the air and glares at me. Okay, yes, I'm probably not doing anything to help resolve the situation, but it's hard to censor yourself after years of blurting out whatever comes to mind. Not to mention the fact that I'm just feeling _really_ irritable right now, and I figure it probably has something to do with the withdrawal. "How about you, huh? Why don't we talk about _your _life?"

Cold runs through my veins as the feeling I usually drown with drink finally gets to blossom fully inside me. My eyes narrow and I stand. "No."

"So you get to talk about my life, but I'm not allowed to ask about yours?"

"We're not talking about it!" I say frenziedly. "You haven't said anything and for all I know, we could be on completely different pages! Just because I accidentally said something that could have potentially been taken the wrong way is no reason to go delving into my personal life!" I finish the mini-rant breathing heavily, the most intense glare I've ever managed focused completely on my district partner, while he returns it with one of his own. And in that moment, with my hair tousled everywhere and an expression of blazing fury on my face while my grey eyes are staring daggers at Damian, I feel exactly like someone who I never, _ever_ wanted to be like. It's enough to make me take a step back in shock and sit slowly down on the rock behind me. "Oh, God, I need a drink." Alcohol was my saviour, the defining line that separated my mother from me. As long as I was drunk, I could feel relieved in knowing that she never did _anything_ like that, and therefore we were different. But now . . .

"That's a disgusting habit." I look up to see Damian still glaring at me. It appears he hasn't gotten over what was said and, to be fair, neither have I; the need for liquor just overshadows everything else.

"What, drinking?"

"Yes."

"I did it all the time in the Capitol and you seemed just fine with it."

"I _tolerated_ it. I still hated it."

"So why didn't you just go away when I was drunk?"

"That was 24/7 and unfortunately, we just so happened to be stuck in rooms across the hall from each other." His mouth's still set in a thin, harsh line, but at least some of the fight has seemed to have gone out of the situation. This becomes more apparent when he sighs and his expression relents slightly. "Plus you weren't dangerous drunk."

"Dangerous?" Huh, now that I think about it, Gerier, Losan and I _are_ pretty harmless drinkers. Pretty much the worst we'll do is throw up on your shoes. I open my mouth to ask why he'd think I could possibly be dangerous, but the words die in my throat as I remember exactly what led us to this fight in the first place. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely _hate_ being sober, but sometimes it can help in departments like thinking and remembering. And censoring what you're about to say before you say it. "You know," I say instead, trying madly to think of something, _anything_ I could say to make us both feel better and solve this problem. This sober mood is making me feel even worse about not having alcohol. "Drinking in moderation is alright."

Anya Powers's problem-solving skill level: 0. As evident when Damian looks at me as though he can't _believe_ I really just said that with the hopes of lightening the mood. "Yeah. And do _you_ drink in moderation?" I just shrug, not wanting to agree and yet not really having an argument for answering otherwise. "Does _anyone_ drink in moderation? No. They just drink and drink and drink until they don't feel anything and they're consumed by this-this rage, and they beat up the people they're supposed to love and don't even care when they do and they just go off and die one night when they're so drunk on the street that they . . ."

I didn't interrupt while he ranted; I figured (using my amazing new thinking skills) that this was actually good, a long-overdue session of venting his frustrations and getting over his problems. In a way, it's probably good when you finally realize you care about something, and stop being in denial over it. It could lead to recovery or whatever.

Not that I can speak from experience. I mean, _I_ don't have any problems that need getting over.

But the last few words Damian spoke brought to mind something that happened about two years ago. The group (which at that time consisted of Gerier, Losan, myself and a pair of twins who left shortly after the events of that night) and I were out on the streets (as usual) and drinking (also as usual) when another drunk guy stumbled down our alley (also pretty normal). I believe I mentioned before that we tend to see every messed-up citizen who lives in Eight, and it's true; at one point, they all seem to pass by. That night was no different, and it was then that we met The Guy, as we call him; a man who was stumbling down the alley, drunker even than we were, and repeatedly shouting one name over and over.

"Damian."

My district partner looks at me as I say his name, and if I wasn't so focused on my memories, I might have been surprised at the slight redness around his eyes. "What?"

"Damian. Holy crap. The Guy was . . ." I peter off and take another look at the boy standing before me; now I'm beginning to notice the similarities. "The Guy . . ." I finally take notice of my district partner and look up at him. "I think I met your father."

Whatever he was expecting me to say, it certainly wasn't that. "What?" he asks, and this time there's more venom in his voice; he seems to be getting over his brief moment of weakness. "Wait, on the streets?" He snorts, but his derision still sounds forced and his eyes haven't entirely recovered their cold nature. "Figures. He was a drunken idiot."

"A drunken idiot looking for you," I say, the last words The Guy ever spoke echoing through my head.

"_Damian! DAMIAN! Please, come home!"_

_Gerier stops his attempt at creating music by tapping an empty bottle near us with an overgrown fingernail. "Oi, will you keep it down! I'm composing an orchestra!"_

"_You don't compose an orchestra, idiot," I say, giggling as I take another long swig from a fuller container._

"_Well, then I-"_

"_DAMIAN! PLEASE!"_

"_Oi, will you shut up!" Gerier shouts again, and we watch as a man (and presumed owner of the yelling voice we've been hearing) stumbles into our alley. "Who're you looking for anyways?"_

_The man's eyes are unfocused and it takes him a second to realize he's not alone in the alley. It's another few minutes before he processes the question. "My son," he whispers quietly. Then he swings around, bellowing at the opposite wall. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! Damian, come home! Come HOME!"_

_As his arms waved frantically, gesturing at some unseen person, I noticed a locket swinging back and forth from one of his hands. Thanks to the dim light coming off a store window across the street, I can just make out the picture within: a young, slim boy bearing the same shockingly dark hair as the guy I'm assuming is his father. I don't have time to analyze the similarities too much though (and as I'm completely intoxicated, I wouldn't want to bother either), because at that moment the man decides to continue his drunken stumble down the alley. We just laugh and wave him off before continuing to enjoy our drinks, though one of the twins (the most sober out of all of us) is looking sort of funny._

"_What?" I ask, still chuckling at the thought of the ridiculous man and starting to tap on my bottle like Gerier._

"_He went left," the younger girl says slowly, looking as though she's trying very hard to piece something together._

"_So?"_

"_Isn't it . . ." She frowns, brow wrinkling in her attempt to fight the effects of the alcohol we've been having. "Isn't it Thursday?"_

_I stare at her, having absolutely no idea what she's trying to get at. The only thing currently sticking out in my mind about Thursdays is Half-Price Night at the local bar (hurray!); such is the reason we're all insanely drunk. But why would that have anything to do with him going left? It's not . . ._

_Oh, no. Thursdays are . . . oh, crap._

_BAM!_

Thursday: a day Gerier and Losan could never seem to completely fall in love with, despite the benefits of Half-Price Night. In District 8, Thursdays are the days all the textiles and other products from our factories are shipped off to the trains, the job our homeless group's founders _used_ to have before they were fired. Turned out there were better ways than getting an army of people to attempt to haul all the textiles by hand (yeah, District 8's a bit behind the times as far as technology goes). Now everything's just driven in a few big trucks. That day, we happened to be in an alley that backed right onto the street the vehicles take to the train station. We're not a particularly rich district and cars are a rare sight to behold driving down our roads, so it's easy for someone to forget about the trucks and their route. Especially if you're drunk. No harm done, really.

Unless you happen to try and cross the road while neither you nor the driver is paying attention.

Damian stares at me as I finish recounting the story, though I leave out the part that happened _after_ the crash; i.e. our finding the disgusting mess that was his father after he'd been practically run over by the textile truck, because despite what my district partner says, deep down I think he still cares, if only a little bit. Call it a six sense, if you will. Or a sudden clarity due to abstaining from drinking. Just don't call it experience; not like I'd know what it feels like to secretly care but pretend not to about a parental figure.

"No." The word comes out quiet, but forceful, and such a commanding tone surprises me. "You're lying."

"Wish I was, trust me. It wasn't pretty. I-"

"No!" Quick as a flash, the anger's returned to my district partner's voice and eyes as he glares at me. "That. Didn't. Happen."

Crap; I think I missed another social cue. Is it . . . sympathy? At his father's death. Yeah, that must be it. "I'm sorry, Damian, I really am. I didn't know you didn't know that-"

"Oh, I knew," he says, nearly laughing, though there's an odd, discomposed quality to it. "And I couldn't care less. But he was a worthless, pathetic excuse for a human being and he wouldn't have spent his last moments looking for me."

At this point, maybe I should just resolve myself to being a failed conversationalist. I never know the right freaking thing to say and as far as ignoring the sarcastic responses that jump into my head and trying to replace them with kind words well, it's not like that's working out great. "Oh, of course, you're right. He must have just been out looking for his _other_ son named Damian who ran away."

My district partner's cold gaze narrows as I seem to cross yet _another_ line, but to heck with it; at this point, I'd cross any line solely because I feel like it. Back when we were in the Capitol, Taf did some research on withdrawal symptoms to show me _exactly_ what I'd be facing in the arena if I didn't stop drinking earlier. I believe irritability was at the top of that list. "And what would you know?" Damian spits back venomously. "You were as drunk as he was. Your story's credibility is about as nonexistent as you chances at winning these Games."

"_Excuse me_?" I spring up off the rock and stare my district partner down, hoping he's feeling the full extent of the Mom Glare . . . I mean the Anya Glare. My glare. _Mine_. "Want to repeat that last bit?"

"Sorry, could your attention deficit brain not pay attention long enough to hear everything?"

"You know what, if you don't shut up in about three seconds, I'm going to come over there and give you a few more injuries to go with your bloodbath ones."

"You really think you can manage counting up to three? Sure it's not too hard for you?"

"That's it-"

"Yeah? Just try and-"

"STOP!"

The command is so abrupt, and so forceful that both Damian and I stop right in our tracks, the two of us nearly falling over as we lurch to a halt a few steps away from attempting to tear each other to shreds. This new voice distracts us both completely though, and we both completely forget each for a second as we both turn to see Erik standing nearby towering over us, wearing a look that's such a combination of weariness, disbelief and such an enormous concentration of disappointment that staring into his eyes makes me feel worse than facing down Damian's glare. For a moment, there's silence in the previous shout-filled air, and the lack of yelling makes me realize just how loud we were being before. _Oh, God, we're idiots._

"I-I don't get it." I watch Erik look from Damian to me, giving off a humourless, somewhat hysterical laugh – like the kind you hear from someone who's _way_ overdue for a rest. "I just . . . don't get it. What, do they not teach you about the Hunger Games in District 8? Do you not . . . do you not _watch_ it on TV? Do you all just treat it like fun and games?" He shakes his head incredulously and during the quiet that follows, Damian opens his mouth to interrupt.

"Look, we're kind of in the middle of something here, just-"

"_Children are dying_!" Erik shouts suddenly. "Children. Are. _Dying_. And the two of you are standing around and arguing like an old married couple! What is _wrong_ with you two? Do you not get this?" He turns to me and suddenly I get a strong urge to run away and hide in the forest. "I told you," he starts again, quieter this time, but in a tone no less intense than before. "I told you during training that this is real. That this isn't just a game. You know that first night, after the bloodbath and when they were showing the faces of the dead in the sky? That kid, Bastian, when he came up, the people in the District 5 tower, the people who _knew _him, they . . . they _cheered_. It was disgusting. I couldn't imagine how anyone could be so heartless. I certainly never knew anyone like that." He turns his gaze back on the both of us. "But now, after listening to you two argue about something so trivial while people are dying out there?" He shakes his head, lip curling up in revulsion. "Well, I guess things are different now."

"Hey," Damian says sharply, limping forwards and up to our third ally. "Don't you _dare_ lump me in the same class as those people."

Eric just looks at him and for a long time, no one says anything. For my part, I'm still trying to process everything my District 11 ally just said, but I have a feeling some sort of silent communication is going on between the boys as they stare each other down, though I can't figure out what they're trying to say for the life of me. Finally, some of the anger seems to drift away from Eric's tall frame, though he still continues watching the other boy closely. "Well, maybe you're right," he says. "But I-I can't do this anymore." He breaks eye contact with Damian and glances back at me. "Bianca . . . dying, Sade and the rest of the Careers out there . . ." He takes a deep breath. "I need to do something about it. Alone. I-I need to go."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?" All throughout the conversation/rant, I was half-listening, half-inwardly agonizing over my constant headache which had once again decided to grow into a full-blown migraine, but I'd figured I'd caught the general gist of what was happening. After all, I saw this kind of thing all the time in the Games on TV; the alliance would get on each other's nerves, yell, shout, let off some steam and then afterwards everyone would feel better and continue on as normal. But this conversation seems to be taking a completely different, entirely unpleasant direction instead. "You're leaving? What?" Erik just looks at me, hazel eyes turning on my grey ones, and with the horrible clarity that comes with sobriety, I see what's really been going on with him. My District 11 ally's been struggling to keep it together solely for our benefit; the death of his district partner hit him hard and watching even more traumatizing acts and atrocities committed after a childhood full of them, it must have pushed him nearly to breaking point. If he could do something about it, take a stand and fight back, maybe it'd make him feel better; but such a thing isn't possible when he's having to tote around a moaning withdrawal victim and her injured district partner. This will ultimately help him.

And screw me over. I can't let this happen.

Maybe he sees that fact in my eyes, because he opens his mouth and says, "You can follow me; I-I won't stop you. But I doubt you can keep up." And with that, he grabs his scythe firmly in one hand and his pack in the other, and the last thing I see is a look of guilt and regret mar his features, making me think that he won't actually follow through with this, that he can't force himself to leave. But then he's gone.

Damian's the first to recover; I'm so shocked, I'm still staring at the place where Erik disappeared, almost as though I expect him to pop back through the bushes with a big smile and shout, "Kidding!" Unfortunately, there's not a grin to be found on anyone, and the atmosphere is distinctly lacking a joking tone. "T-that . . ." I stutter, not able to find the words to express what I'm feeling. Heck, I don't even know _what_ I'm feeling. "That was . . . he . . . he just . . ."

"Left," Damian says, turning away from the spot where Erik disappeared as though nothing changed. I'm still gaping at the bushes as my brain tries frantically to process the huge event that just happened in so little time, but out of the corner of my eye I notice Damian picking up his odd, curved boomerang/weapon-thing. "And maybe he had the right idea."

"What?!" I turn to him, eyes wide and mouth moving in wordless protests. What the _hell_ just happened to our alliance? "What do you mean 'he had the right idea'?"

"I mean, there's no use sticking around here," he answers, determinedly not looking at me as he starts to walk away. "I don't care what happened in the Capitol; I'm done."

"What? Hey, you can't just . . ." I peter off as he starts to stride into the darkness of the forest surrounding us and as a new, sudden wave of pain smashes through my brain, I find irritation growing inside me once again, overriding the surprise and desperation as I continue to stare at Damian's quickly disappearing back. "Well, fine! Maybe I'll just leave too! Maybe we'll all just leave! And then we can all just randomly wander off into the woods and get picked off by random tributes and mutts and traps and things. What do you say to _that_?"

Apparently, nothing. As I talk, the shadows swallow up the fading image of my district partner and just like that, I'm left alone in the forest. A groan of frustration escapes from my mouth and I aim a furious kick at a nearby pebble on the ground (and, in case you're curious, my terrible balance and coordination causes me to miss entirely and hit a tree instead. The added pain in my foot _really _does nothing to help matters). Cursing, I storm off in the furthest direction from the routes both Damian and Erik took; no way am I chasing after them. After all, I didn't even want an alliance in the _first_ place! I can do just fine on my own in the arena, thank you very much.

This fact becomes slightly disproved after about ten minutes of wandering around in the forest before becoming _completely_ lost. _Whatever,_ I think fiercely, swatting angrily at a low-hanging branch (which comes back and whacks me in the face. _Really_ got to stop accidentally injuring myself). _Not like you need to know where you're going in the arena anyways. All that matters is where you are in relation to other tributes._ Just the thought makes me look around agitatedly, but no crazed, weapon-wielding tribute comes lunging out of the forest to attack me. Though for all I know, one could be stalking me right now and I probably wouldn't even be able to tell; now that a certain cocky, irritating thief isn't around to insult me about it, I don't mind admitting that I may have a _slight _problem when it comes to awareness of my surroundings.

I sigh heavily and slow my pace. Alright, the honest truth is, I can't stay mad at Damian for long. Or Erik. Maybe it's just the withdrawal symptoms wreaking havoc on my grudge-holding abilities, but with the stress we're all dealing with, not to mention the various injuries and other personal problems, we deserve to vent once in awhile. I'm hoping Damian feels the same way; Erik, on the other hand, who's dealing with something extremely traumatic and much more recent, might not be able to shake his guilt and need to do something as easily. For a moment, the idea of trying to talk the two back into forming an alliance comes to mind, but it quickly disappears as the memories of how much my talking helped in situations like tonight float through my brain, a slight feeling of embarrassment coming along with them. Gah, see, _this_is why I drink; all the decisions you make and things you say seem so much more justified.

However, all memories of the night, all thoughts on my two ex-allies, even the constant, nagging awareness that I'm in the Hunger Games and there are people out there right now trying to kill me, disappear as I maneuver around a thick patch of brambles and find myself standing on the banks of a huge, glistening lake. Not like a little creek or depressing swamp; a gigantic, borderline-oceanic amount of water, so pristine and flawless that little warning sensors in my brain go off immediately. My first thought: it's a Gamemaker trap. My second thought: nah, you know, maybe it's actually real. My third thought: wait . . . am I hallucinating again? Yes, I know, took me a few seconds to reach the most obvious conclusion. Hey, I'd like to see _you_ think with a splitting headache and right after you just broke off your alliance. Yeah, difficult, isn't it?

Admittedly though, I probably should be a little smarter about this, because my next thought is: Gamemaker trap or harmless hallucination? Let's touch it to find out!

I take a few hesitant steps forwards and stick the tip of my boot outwards, slowly lowering it until it touches the glassy surface of the water below. Nothing big happens, no bloodthirsty mutts leaping out to tear me to pieces, no spikes shooting out of the trees or anything, but unsettlingly enough, no ripples mar the surface of the lake, no matter how much I slosh my foot around in the pool. _Okay . . . hallucination, then?_ I wonder; I mean, the Gamemakers may have an endless array of technology at their hands, but I don't think even they could pull this off – plus, you know, I don't know why they'd _want_ to. This really is just a harmless, random, probably imaginary body of water; to make absolutely sure, I take a peek into the depths of the lake, crossing my fingers that I won't be mauled by some giant, sea monster mutt as I do so.

Thankfully, that doesn't happen. But what occurs instead is much, _much_ worse.

I stare in horror down at the surface of the lake, unable to take my eyes off the face that's so familiar, yet not my own reflection. It's . . . it's . . .

"Hello, Anya."

"Ahh!"

For the third time that night, I yet out a shout, backpedalling away from the surface of the water as quickly as I can. But her voice is still in my head, and in a desperate attempt to get rid of it, I kick at the lake with all my might. Yes, in normal circumstances, kicking a lake really wouldn't do much; but here, I'm dealing with withdrawal hallucinations, and that kind of thing laughs in the face of 'normal circumstances.' Instead of merely creating a few harmless ripples in the water, the entire thing shatters like glass, taking the horrifying face in the water along with it. I'm left alone, panting and gasping on the banks of what is now a lake of deadly glass shards; trust me though, it's _much_ preferable. I sigh in relief and start to get to my feet, feeling my heart rate beginning to return to normal, when all of a sudden something else happens that just makes it shoot right back up. The shards are _moving_; melting and forming together until they create the glass form of a person, which begins to morph into a real-looking human before my eyes – the same real-looking human whose face took the place of my own in the lake. But she can't be real, it's not possible. She's _dead_ . . .

Every piece of glass has disappeared into the creation of this person by the time they speak again. "Did you miss me?"

"W-what?" The whole thing is so terrifying and shocking, I can barely speak; but at the same time, I can't seem to leave either. "Mom?"

The person – no, no, hallucination, it _has_ to be a hallucination – tilts her head in the same disappointed manner I've seen far too often to forget. "Yes, Anya, do try to keep up. I'm asking you if you missed me."

"What? No! No, not at all, and . . ." I peter off, the full realization of who I'm having a conversation with hitting me. "And you're dead! This isn't real, you died years ago, I'm not having this conversation with you . . ."

"Oh, but you are." Mom – no, no, the hallucination – smiles. "I figured it was about time we had a talk."

_That's_ a bit of an understatement; our 'conversations' back when she was alive usually entailed her ordering me to do something, me refusing, and then we'd start fighting until Dad decided to interfere. He always said we never got along because we were too much alike; like _hell_we were. There are absolutely _no_ similarities between me and my mother, none whatsoever. Trust me.

"Oh, honey, you've _got_ to stop thinking that and just get _over_ it," Hallucination-Mom says.

"What?" I glare at the thing before me. "Okay, now I _know_ you're a hallucination. You're reading my mind, and real Mom never, _ever_ called me 'honey,' not to mention the fact that she's dead so there's no _way_ she could be here now . . ."

"But I _am_," the vision-thing insists earnestly. "I'm _always_ with you."

"Oh, don't start with that-"

"No, I don't mean I'm in your heart and whatever, neither of us cares about that. I'm talking about living in your _brain._"

That catches me off-guard. "What?"

"Your brain, Anya, surprising as it may be, you do have one. And isn't the memory of me always there?"

"No."

"_Anya_."

This may just be a figment of my imagination, but her tone is eerily similar to the one my mother used whenever I was misbehaving as a child. I cross my arms and frown sullenly. "'Kay, maybe."

"And don't I influence your decisions every day?"

"What?! No!"

"Anya."

"No!"

"_Anya_."

I glare at the hallucination, refusing to say another word. How dare she . . . how . . . I mean, no, Mom doesn't influence my decisions! Whatever I do, I do for_me_, and not for anyone else. I don't care what they think, honestly, I-

"Oh, stop that." The thing in front of me waves a hand, as though I'm some sort of bothersome fly. "You know it's true. Honestly, I couldn't care less if you didn't want to be like me-"

"That's not what you used to think," I mutter.

"-but the point _is_, you're still living your life for me!" The hallucination puts her hands on her hips. "Look, we both know why you turned to alcohol."

"Because I liked it."

"_No_. Because I never drunk. You wanted to separate yourself from me so much, you did everything you could to avoid it. But it was all. For. Me. You dyed your hair so you wouldn't look like me, you ran away so you could pretend I wasn't a part of your family, you started drinking so people would look at you and never think Qwella Powers again." The hallucination shakes her head. "And you won't even use the one weapon that could help you win this thing because it's the same object _I_ used back in the rebellion. You can't stand the similarities." She sighs sadly. "Do what you want, Anya, but honestly, stop doing it for me. I'm dead. I don't care anymore."

"Aha!" I shout, pointing an accusing finger at the vision. "You admit you're dead! So you must be a figment of my imagination!"

Mom just looks at me. "I never said I wasn't. Pretending I'm something I'm not is for you to do, not me." And with that, she disappears, leaving me glaring at a tree, a dark, depressing forest surrounding me once more.

_That's not true,_I think furiously, turning on my heel and striding away from the spot. _Nothing she said is true. I don't do things for her! I'm not using this weapon because I feel like it, not because . . . because . . ._

I groan and sit back against a tree, taking the object out of my pocket and glaring at it. It's been causing me so many problems lately, I have half a mind to chuck it into the forest and leave it there. But at the same time, a little voice of reason is whispering in the back of my mind that it could be the key to winning the Games. The only reason I don't want to listen to it is because it sounds a little too much like my mother's voice for my liking. Still . . .

It was in the bloodbath. I was running like a crazy person (or rather, like a drunk person) around the arena, trying to figure out where the Cornucopia was, when I saw him. According to Damian they've gotten people from our own districts to come into this arena and kill us, but I didn't recognize him, so he must not have been someone from Eight. He wasn't looking my way and I didn't see him, and I ended up bowling him over as I ran. He grabbed the first weapon he was armed with, a sharp, wicked-looking knife, and swung it out at me, resulting in the long scratch I've attempted to bandage. Looking back on it, I think I told that crazy guy from Twelve that it was Jet Matthews who gave it to me; man, was I wasted.

That, and just didn't want to think about what had happened after I got hurt. The pain was like an arrow, shooting through the haze of drink and letting me know that if I didn't do something right that second, I would die. So I attacked the guy back. I think we were both surprised by how vicious I ended up being when it came to bludgeoning someone with a rock lying nearby on the ground; well, drinking, as much as I enjoy it, can do some pretty messed up things to your head. As I'm sure a certain District 8 male tribute would know.

And Damian said I wasn't dangerous drunk.

I don't know the full extent of the damage I did, and I don't think they fire cannons whenever one of their soldiers die, but I do know the guy made no move to get up as I finally stopped pounding him. And I was just getting up to leave when I caught sight of shiny metal at the edges of my vision. It isn't all that unusual for me to get magpie-like tendencies, as the group calls them, when I'm drunk. Remember my obsession with Bastian's cloak? So, upon seeing the bright, reflective object, I'd picked it up and shoved it into my pocket without any further thought. It was only later, after I'd sobered up a bit, that I'd realized just what I'd grabbed.

I stare at the object now, hating it and yet still wanting to have it here with me, liking the feeling of safety it brings me. But how can I use this? How can I use this knowing my mother held the same sort of weapon in her hands when she fought in the rebellion? I've already lost drinking, and the dye in my hair is beginning to fade away, roots sprouting up their natural blonde. I can't become even more like her, I just . . . can't.

_Do what you want, Anya, but honestly, stop doing it for me._

Is that . . . is that true? All my choices in life, was it really just to help widen the dividing line between my mother and I? How pathetic would that make me? I groan again and sink lower into the ground. Things were so much simpler when I couldn't think or remember anything.

_Oh, and prepare to see some serious Anya-style in the arena._

I frown, confused. Odd that out of all the things I could be thinking about right now, that line from my interview is the thing that comes back to me now. But I guess it makes sense, in a way. I told everyone, over live TV, that they'd be seeing 'Anya-style' in the arena, and so far, all they've seen is Mom-style and Anti-Mom-style. I really _haven't_ done anything because I myself think it's a good idea. And it hurts to realize it, but it's true. Concerning this object, I've only ever considered two options: I use it to be like Mom, or I use it to be different from her. I never really stopped to consider what _I_, Anya Powers, actually wanted to do with it.

And now, staring at the thing in my hands, I think I might finally be able to make the decision. For me.

"_Damian,_" I hiss, stumbling through the forest in an effort to be stealthy and sneaky. Yeah, probably not working out too well. "_Damian!"_

Of course, he could be long gone by now, but I'm praying my guess is right; that after a bit of a walk around the forest to calm him down, he'll stop feeling angry and us. I know it worked for me.

"_Damian!_ Damian, where-"

"Has the idea that you're in an arena with people who would not hesitate to murder you not sunken in yet, or is this _really_ your best attempt and being inconspicuous?"

I whirl around, and there he is, standing in the shadow between two trees and staring at me. He still doesn't seem entirely over what went on before, but at this moment, I really couldn't care less. "_Damian_!" I say, managing to keep the volume at a whispered shout as I run and hug him. He seems a bit shocked by this, and I figure I should probably apologize, since I can't use the excuse of intoxication like I normally do when I get a bit too touchy-feely with someone. But at this point in time, my mind's whirring with too many other things to bother with apologies. "I thought you'd gone off."

"Obviously you didn't, or you wouldn't be around here shouting my name."

Damn, he's smart. "Okay, yeah," I say back. "And look, I'm really sorry about . . ." I stop at the look on his face, which clearly says he doesn't want me to continue along this train of thought, so I quickly try to switch. ". . . that, uh, I left. Yeah, sorry about that. But I had a little heart to heart with my hallucinations, and I think in the end, it really helped."

He stares at me. "What?"

I start to wave my hand in dismissal, but pause, thinking about how it was the same gesture I just saw my mother/hallucination use earlier. Then I continue through with it all the same; honestly, who cares? "Not important. What is important is that we're going to find Erik, and help him take out the Careers."

"What?" I think I may have accidentally broken my district partner, because he seems to only be capable on saying that one word over and over again while wearing a shocked, confused expression.

"Find Erik," I say slowly, trying to tone down my excitement. Yes, I know, it's awful to feel excitement at the prospect of killing others, but it's not that that's making me happy. I just feel so, I don't know, free. You know, 'cause _that_ doesn't sound cheesy. "Kill Careers. Is there a third step I'm missing somewhere, because I figured it sounded pretty simple, but if you don't get it-"

"I get it just fine," Damian retorts, finally snapping out of his confusion. "But you can't just _decide_ something like this."

"Why not?"

"Well, you have to plan and-"

"Eugh."

He frowns as I make noises of disgust at the dreaded p-word. "You're honestly serious about this?"

"Yes."

"And you're just going to dive into it with no strategy whatsoever?"

"That's why I allied with Erik, so _he_ could do all the thinking and planning and everything. Failing that, I'll improvise."

Damian rolls his eyes, and I have to say, I've never been happier to see my district partner revert back to his old, sarcastic self. "Really. So, what, you're expecting the Careers just to lie down and wait for you to kill them with their own weapons or something?"

I smile; this is it. "Nope." I reach my hand inside my jacket, taking hold of the object. "I'm gonna pick them off with this."

Damian's eyes widen as I withdraw my hand, revealing, for all to see, the gun held snuggly in my palm.


	50. If There Were Stars

**Writers to the guild and contact me for your assignments. We now have a final 10 0_0.**

* * *

**Roulla Saney of District Four**

**by Jayfish**

**Night of Day 2-through early morning of Day 3**

* * *

_"I'm just like you... a prisoner of circumstance. Trapped in a world I no longer recognize."_- Alexander, _Amnesia: The Dark Descent_

* * *

I am dragged from the clutches of sleep by a rough jab to the ribs. My eyes snap open almost instantly and I jerk into a sitting position, fingers clutching the hilt of my knife. Even at night, I hold it in my arms. Seeing as Admire is the only other Career with a weapon from the Capitol, I have every right to guard my own so jealously.

I remember, very clearly, both moments, the acquisition of my knife, and the acquisition of Admire's. It was a real stroke of luck, that I was able to procure such a prize. We were walking from the Cornucopia, after yet another failed attempt to scrounge up some weapons. Con's bloated body had been taken away by this point, a whole day later, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. I imagined him splayed in a trench to the left of us, fingers still curled into the dirt. At that point, it was all I could do to maintain my facade of cold composure, all the while wondering what my idiot district partner had tried to do. I didn't want him to die so early.

But it doesn't matter what I wanted, does it?

In any case, we passed a trench filled with dust and cobwebs and I was intrigued. I was last in the group and I slipped inside. There was a box. On top of the box was a knife.

I told the others, of course, but it was agreed that the knife was mine. They tore the box in two, trying to find weapons inside it. It was totally empty. I wondered if perhaps they would fight me for the knife, if Canicus would make me give it away, but no one said anything at all. It is better now that Admire has a Capitol weapon as well, or I'd feel extremely uncomfortable about the whole situation.

She was sponsored. Several hours after I'd gotten my knife, a silver parachute dropped from the sky, raindrops pattering on the fabric. The knife was of better quality than mine, with a shimmering golden hilt. It must have cost a fortune. I can only wonder who sponsored her, who was willing to spend so much so early in the Games.

Another jab to the ribs reminds me that I have business to contend with. Sade is looking down at me, a scowl on her face. "You're taking the last shift," she informs me. I am not inclined to argue, seeing as there are dark circles under the girl's eyes and her face is pale. I remember that Sade was shot in the thigh during the Bloodbath and my eyes automatically flit to her leg. She catches me looking at the spot, which she bandaged with the little hat all of us were given as part of our uniform. I believe she ripped it in half and tied it around the wound. The fact that she was forced to resort to such rude measures belies the insanity of this year's Games, how different things are.

"Are you going to get up or not, slowpoke?" Sade snaps, shifting so that her makeshift bandage is out of my sight.

"Yes, I'll relieve you," I tell her, getting to my feet. "Is your leg alright?"

She rolls her eyes. "It'll be fine. It isn't anything I can't handle." Her green eyes are fixed on my knife for a moment, and then she turns away. "Don't screw up," she says, her parting words to me.

"Good night, Sade," I reply. "Or what remains of it." The sky has changed from inky blackness to a sort of faded blue color, similar to my blanket at home. Thinking about home is one of the biggest mistakes I could possibly make right now, and I put the thoughts out of my head. Instead, I turn and watch as Sade flops onto the ground beside Admire, who is clutching her own knife to her ample chest. Looking at a sleeping Admire makes me weirdly happy, because she is so much more beautiful when she is asleep. Awake, I can see the barely-disguised cruelty in those lovely eyes, and I know that I must stay away from Miss Blanchard.

Taking a few steps away from our camp, I sit down on the hard earth and begin to scope out the area. We ended up avoiding the Cornucopia. The place has nothing for us; no shelter, no weapons, no food. Camping there because of a misguided sense of tradition would be idiotic. Canicus moved us north of the Cornucopia, at the edge of the woods. To our right is a burnt-out clearing, where ashen trees claw at the far-away sky.

We've fortified the camp to the best of our ability. In the forest ahead semi-deep trenches are scattered, and we've built these into our defenses. If a tribute attempts to sneak towards us in that way we'll see them coming and we won't let them progress. At our back we've done our best to rig some traps. Barbed wire from around the Cornucopia is connected to a veritable minefield of sharpened wooden stakes, courtesy of Canicus and his skills with shaping wood. Slipping through the wire will require considerable skills. It is more likely that the unfortunate tribute will be caught fast. Admire suggested we use this as a sort of warning system, and now the wire is connected by string to another patch of wire, closer to our camp. If anything gets caught in our trap the wire will rattle and shake, alerting us to our visitor. If anyone manages to claw their way past our deadly wall, they're sure to be injured.

Once I've determined that there aren't any other tributes lurking in the area, I can relax, if only for a while. When the others wake up in the morning, I'm assuming that we'll be back to hunting. A brief memory flashes through my mind, one of the desperate shrieks of the boy from District Five. _What happened to him was unnecessary,_I think. _Jet didn't have to do what he did._It would have been better if the boy's neck had been snapped, and that had been the end of it. Still, the Capitol enjoys a good show. If Jet continues his torture, it will be easier for me to refrain from such brutality. I am not particularly inspired in the art of torture. Nor do I think it would sit well with me, making someone's death slow and painful. I was trained to kill quickly and efficiently, and I will stick with that.

My stomach gives a sudden ache, and I glance over at the small pile of food in the center of the camp, spread out over Jet's jacket. Almost as soon as the boy from District Five was killed and Canicus wrested control of the situation from Jet, he ordered the monstrous boy to hunt down some food for us. Canicus himself located a water source not too far from camp. Unfortunately, the source is a stream of muddy water in one of the trenches, water that is in no way clean, and probably unsafe to drink.

In any event, Jet returned with a spread of food that he apparently discovered in an abandoned army camp of some kind. There was nothing else of use, he said, but there was apparently some kind of half-opened crate filled with strips of beef with salt and stale bread. There isn't enough to last us the entire Games, but there _is_enough so that each of us should be able to eat for at least two more days without dying. Hopefully we'll have moved camp by that point, because the idea of drinking from that muddy stream again makes my insides roll.

I tip my head back and stare into the starless sky. If there were stars, I would be reminded of the arms of Yirone. "Yirone" is most definitely _not_the name of the girl from District Six. I never bothered to learn her name, a fact that I am sorely regretting now. I had originally been thinking of her as The Yiri-Clone, and that ended up shortening itself until Yirone became her name.

I remember the way they her arms looked as I guided her; each little scar representing a star in the sky. I didn't tell her that I'd noticed, but I had. I think I noticed more about her than she was anticipating.

I noticed the implants in her eyes. They were fantastic: black and glittering. I noticed the sarcasm with which she spoke of my allies, and the way she softened towards me, at the end of our meeting. I noticed the way she seemed determined to keep her dress _up,_because I also noticed the cylinder filled with pills that she was so desperate to hide from me.

She didn't know that I saw them. It was when she ran into me that I noticed the foreign object in her cleavage. I can't pretend to understand what the pills do, but I know that she has a secret. And there is desire in me, burning and passionate, to discover the truth behind said secret. _What are you hiding, oh enemy of mine?_I think. My stomach turns again; thinking of Yirone as my enemy is off-putting.

I am unsure of what I will do, if I see her. I tried not to think of her in the beginning, and it was easy: I didn't spot her during the Bloodbath at all. When the four cannons rang out, I found, I was oddly relieved. If there were only four, I could be quite sure that she was still alive.

The feelings I get from Yirone are not good, and I should be ignoring them. All I can hope is that I never have to see her. She is too intriguing for me to kill, and she looks too much like Yiri. It would be like killing the only girl I have ever loved. It makes me sick. This whole situation makes me sick.

"Damn you, Yirone," I murmur. I almost never swear, but I believe I am perfectly justified in this situation. The girl is distracting me. The only good that can come of her is her picture in the sky… and even as I think this, a primal horror grips me. No, I do not wish for Yirone's death. She is driving me to distraction and her very existence might be enough to kill me, and I still don't want her to die.

I squeeze my eyes shut. _Yirone is not my concern. I will think of something else._It is only because I have conditioned myself very well to turning off my thoughts that I am able to put Yirone out of my head. I replace her image with that of the supply list. Seeing as the Capitol didn't see fit to provide us with anything, the Careers have been branching out of their comfort zones and trying new things, mainly the art of weapons-making.

To my surprise, it appears as though Canicus Macaulay was at least partially prepared for the making of his own weapons. He asked me for the use of my knife yesterday, and I willingly gave it to him in exchange for watching him work. There is wood all over the arena: wooden beams, large crates, things like that. Canicus found a medium-sized beam and proceeded to carve it into something dangerous. What he has now is a finely-crafted stake, sharpened to a deadly point. There is shrapnel located all over the arena, and Canicus had Jet hammer some down into a deadly, sharpened point. Attached to the end of the stake, Canicus has created a rude sword. While a Capitol-made sword would be better, Canicus' weapon is creative and fairly well-crafted. I admire him for that.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is Sade's new toy. She was in no way creative with it. In fact, she found it lying on the ground and picked it up. Like Canicus', her weapon is made with wood. Unlike Canicus, she didn't tamper with it in any way. Sade's weapon is a thick piece of broken wood that she obviously plans to use as a club. The fact that she can lift it belies what a pathetic weapon it is. Sade will have to rely on the rest of us to protect her, because she won't be killing many tributes with that lump of wood.

Then there is Jet. Out of all of us, Jet is the one who created weapons closest to Capitol standard. There is shrapnel everywhere, big lumps of malleable metal and slivers sharp enough to break the skin. Jet pounded several lumps of shrapnel into the blade of a thin knife and used my knife to whittle a hilt. He now has three knives, and he is quite willing to help us out. Every Career has a knife made by Jet, a supplementary weapon. Even Admire and I, with our Capitol weapons, have been gifted. It was weirdly considerate of him to do it. I wonder what motivated him.

In addition to the knives, Jet has made himself a club similar to Sade's, but this one I can see doing some real damage. Jet found several loose nails in the army camp, which he shoved into the soft wood so that the pointed ends protrude. If Jet slammed the weapon into the side of someone's head, they would die, no questions asked.

Out of all of us, Jet is probably the best armed. Admire and I have no patience in creating extra weapons, not while we have perfect Capitol weapons in our arsenal. At least we know that our weapons are unlikely to fail at a crucial time, while there is always the possibility that the created weapons will fall apart. Jet seems confident that they won't, but it's good for all of us that we have backups. One can never be sure, not in the arena.

The variable nature of this place irritates me. Nothing in this arena is as it should be. There are no supplies, the Gamemaker traps seem to be completely depraved, and the Bloodbath killed four. _Four._The worst part is that one of those four was a Career. That should not have happened. Con should not be dead.

I bring my hand to my temple and press it, trying to quell a headache that I know will soon be driving me to complete distraction. Thinking about Con is terrible, almost as bad as thinking about Yirone. Con was… more than an ally, damn him. (Again, the swear is justified.) He wanted to be friends. He kept on pushing the point, again and again, and… I fell for it, like a fool. I decided that I could give him a chance. Not at friendship, not yet, but I thought we could have the precursor of a friendship and go from there.

And now he is dead.

I should have expected this, really. I made a mistake (allowing Con to worm his way into my heart) and I paid for it. It is better for me that he is dead, and yet my thoughts occasionally stray back to him and I am mournful in a way I shouldn't be. I almost wish that he had never participated in these Games at all. In another time and place, we might have been friends, eventually. That will never happen, now that his body has been shipped back to District Four. I wonder if his family is crying over him. If they are all as optimistic and cheerful as Con was, perhaps they are laughing instead. I don't know.

"Do you really think so?" I jerk at the voice and swivel my trunk, looking back at the sleeping Careers with wide eyes. Jet is sitting up with his hands on his knees, eyes half-closed. "… I did my best," he says, sounding world-weary. "Just like the first time." He rubs his hands across his eyes.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop," he says suddenly, and a chill crawls down my spine. Despite the fact that he is not looking at me, I am well-aware that I am the one he's talking to. I clutch my knife a little tighter.

"I apologize. I was not aware that you were engaged in a conversation."

Jet looks up at me, a dark expression on his face. Slowly, he gets to his feet, and I stand up as well. My heart is hammering in my chest, and my palms have begun to sweat. Jet steps towards me deliberately. His hands are empty, but he has all three of his knives jammed in his belt. If it is a fight he's after he can get it from me, but I didn't think he'd want to betray the alliance _quite_so soon.

He notices my defensive posture and his scowl deepens. "I'm not going to hurt you!" he says loudly. "Why does everybody always think…?" A shudder wracks his frame, and when he opens his eyes again, they are shining. "You're wrong about me," he whispers hoarsely, staggering ever-closer. "Everybody's wrong—everybody." He is so close now that I can feel his hot breath blowing my hair back.

Abruptly, his knees buckle and he slams onto my shoulder. Pain erupts underneath my skin at the heavy blow, and my body begins to tremble at the exertion of holding Jet up. He is leaning on me completely, his sharp chin stabbing into my bony shoulder. His lips are moving faintly, and I realize with a shiver that he is singing quietly to himself.

_"With every strike of the pick,_

_We are growing ever-stronger,_

_Feel the sweat on your brow,_

_Blood humming in your veins."_

I push against him, forcing him into standing on his own. He sways a bit, staring at me underneath hooded eyes. "I could… snap your neck," he tells me. "I could crush your skull… with my club. But I can't. She says I can't."

I stare at him and I know that he won't hurt me. Not now, at least. "I am glad," I say. "I am grateful to her, whoever she is."

"Sheba," gasps Jet, as though it is obvious. "She likes you now. She says that I can kill you slowly, someday."

"I… appreciate that," I say. "I am glad that Sheba finds me amiable. I am sure that she is most charming."

My words seem to be lulling Jet back into his usual stupor. I don't think it is the words that are getting to him, but the tone. It is a tone I do not use often. I have found that it appears when I am worried for others, particularly those younger or weaker than me. Jet is neither, and yet his obvious insanity has sparked this strange pity in me, and I continue speaking in the same soft tones.

"Lie back down, Jet," I soothe. "Fall back into your dreams. There is nothing but safety in your dreams, and quiet. There is no reality in the darkness. The harsh world of today can be put off until tomorrow. Sleep, ally. Sleep."

I am always strange when I get this urge, am always different from myself. I suppose I feel safe doing this, knowing that Jet will not remember this encounter. If he does, he will not share it with the others. Unless something else is going on right now, I have the suspicious feeling that this altercation is being featured. I wonder what the audience thinks of it. I wonder what they think of me.

Jet stumbles back towards his space and hits the ground hard. For a moment he looks at me, and his eyes are strangely animal-like in the dark. Then he closes them and his head hits the earth. I am unsure of whether or not he is actually asleep, but he is not looming over me and that is what matters.

I resist the urge to slump to the ground with my head in my hands. The audience will be disappointed if I react in such a manner, and disappointing the audience is similar to being knifed in the chest. Death is almost always the outcome.

In the end, I make a show of skimming my fingers across the surface of my blade and giving Jet terrible looks. He seems weirdly innocent when he is asleep, rather like Admire, but I know better. His twisted mind is no doubt formulating dark fantasies of death and bloodshed and splintered bone. Out of the whole Career pack, Jet is undoubtedly the most frightening. The idea that his actions cannot be predicted because his mind is so _different…_it disturbs me.

When I decide that I have glared at my ally enough, I settle myself back on the ground and stare out into the darkness. It is silent; there are no tributes scurrying around and certainly none of them are attempting an attack. None of the tributes seem particularly vicious this year, save the girl from Five, the boy from Twelve, and perhaps the boy from Three. And Yirone, of course. She has acted so soft and so sweet, but I understand that she has secrets, and secrets mean that the softness and the sweetness might not be true. While that doesn't automatically make her vicious, it makes her a hazard. She is the kind of hazard that I can't stop thinking about.

With an impatient shudder, I jerk to my feet. Caressing the hilt of my blade, I mark a spot a few paces from me and step back before hurling the knife. It lands in the center of the X I drew, and I feel slightly better. _It is best to avoid thinking about her entirely._Scooping up the knife, I turn back to my allies. Aiming for a spot near Admire's nose, I wind up and then hurl the knife. It lands, quivering, right where I imagined it would, a centimeter next to Admire's nostrils. Pleased with myself, I step towards her and bend down to snatch the knife when she moves convulsively.

"Mmm… Trojan…" she murmurs, and then blinks, noticing me looming over her. With an irritated frown, she sits up and fixes me with a cold stare. "What _are_you doing, Roulla Saney?" Even in her annoyance she sounds as though she's having fun.

There's no point in lying to her. "Target practice," I say. "To the left of your nose. That was the target," I add, wilting slightly under her stare.

"Of course it was," Admire mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "Well. Now that you've succeeded in waking me up, you might as well entertain me, hmm?"

My cheeks flare with heat. "Ah—I don't know what you mean," I stammer, taking a step backwards. "I have to keep watch…"

Admire laughs. "Like anyone's going to come!" she exclaims, grabbing my hand and pulling me down. "Sit," she says, looking at my bony legs in distaste. As usual, I find that I can't ignore or escape Admire: she is like a powerful magnet, and I, her polar opposite. With a resigned sigh, I settle onto the ground primly and prepare myself for whatever she has in mind.

"Alright," says Admire, grinning evilly. "Have you ever played Truth, Roulla?"

I swallow hard. "No."

"I shouldn't be surprised. You don't seem like the type." Admire rolls her eyes. "Here's how it goes: I ask you a question, and you _have_to answer truthfully. Then you ask me a question. And so on."

"What if you don't want to answer this question?"

She smiles. "Then I get to slap you, of course! And let me tell you right now, there isn't a _single_question I won't answer!" She bites her lip as though she's thinking, and then nods. "Alright, first question: who's hotter, Jet or Canicus?"

I have no idea which one is hotter. I don't think either of them are hot. "Umm… Jet," I decide.

Admire looks horrified. "Wow. Really? You're crazy, Roulla."

"There's no need to be rude," I say stiffly.

"Oh, shut up and ask a question already."

There's really no point in arguing with Admire. "Alright," I say. "What is your favorite color?"

Admire looks at me incredulously. "… You have to be kidding me, Roulla. That is _not_the kind of question you ask!"

"Are you going to answer?" I ask, "Or do I have to slap you?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Red," she says. "Next question: who, out of all of us, do you like the best?"

I bite my lip. If I was to be entirely truthful I would say that Canicus is my favorite (simply because he is the easiest one to read, and a male) but I don't want to hurt Admire's feelings like that. "I won't answer," I say. She looks gleeful. Raising her hand, she puts it on my cheek.

"Sorry," she says, and slaps me hard. The impact leaves my head ringing, and my neck jerks to the right. My cheek stings brutally and I put my hand over the spot in an attempt to dull the pain. It doesn't really work.

"Your turn to ask a question!" Admire sings.

My head is fuddled by the pain. "Why are you making me play this moronic game?" I groan, trying to massage a feeling other than pain back into my skin.

"Because I'm bored, and I want to see what you think," says Admire. "You never show us anything. It's strange, Roulla. You and Jet could be twins."

My jaw drops. "You don't mean that."

"Well, obviously you're not insane," says Admire. "But when he's being all cold and quiet… yeah, you two are fairly similar." She watches my reaction for a moment, and then nods. "Next question, Roulla! Ooh, this is a good one." She leans closer to me and her voice drops to a low whisper. "Do you trust us? Any of us?"

My heart stills in my chest. "That was a foolish question, Admire," I murmur back. "You already know the answer."

"You have to say it anyway," says Admire. "That's part of the game."

"Alright," I reply. "No. I don't trust any of you."

Admire pulls away, looking oddly pleased. "I didn't think you did," she said. "But I wanted to make sure. None of us are very trustworthy, are we?" She laughs silkily. "It's been fun, Roulla, but I'm going to try and get some more rest. If you're going to use someone's nose as target practice again, you should consider Canicus'. It's big enough." With a quiet chuckle, she pulls away from me and slides back into her place, closing her eyes.

My cheek has started to burn. Grimacing, I spit in my palm and rub the spittle onto the throbbing skin. The pain subsides slightly and I am left wondering why I let her slap me in the first place. Admire is really too persuasive to be around.

I find myself staring at my sleeping comrades. The way they are curled up with their faces smooth and their eyelids heavy is so _endearing._With none of them speaking, I can ignore the darkness that seems to be ingrained in each of them. I remember a conversation that occurred earlier today, after Canicus and I returned from a failed hunting mission, and I let it replace the picture of the sleeping angels before me.

… _"Nothing," Canicus growls, crossing his arms over his chest tightly. "Looks like Jet scared everyone away last night."_

_Jet looks up from his jacket, a strip of jerky hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and says nothing. His eyes are haunted and it is as though he is a shadow of a person._

_Sade, who has been sitting contemplatively, gets to her feet. "Typical," she snaps. "If you'd just let me go along, maybe we'd have something to show for it!"_

_Canicus raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting that you'd do a better job hunting than me and Roulla?" he asks, his voice soft and deadly._

_"Hell yeah I would!" Sade shouts. "Roulla doesn't do shit anyway, and you're all talk."_

_Canicus shoots her a deadly glare. "Enough, Sade," he snaps. "This is how things are going to work. If you have a problem, you can get out." One of his hands rests surreptitiously on the weapon at his belt._

_I do nothing. If this is what Canicus thinks is right, then he can finish what he's started. I only hope that he doesn't kill her, not this early._

_"Aww, Can," says Admire, rising fluidly. "She gets the point. It isn't big bad Canicus' fault that we haven't had any kills today."_

_Canicus turns to Admire, narrowing his eyes. "Admire," he says, his voice fraught with warning._

_"Oh I'm sorry, Mighty Leader," says Admire. "Did I forget to kowtow? I promise I'll remember next time!" Her voice is mocking._

_For a moment, I fear that Canicus will attack. His whole body twitches and he takes several deep, murderous breaths. Finally, he turns away from her, balling his hands into fists. Admire is left smiling, convinced that she's won some kind of battle when there's really an entire war left to win. And none of them can see it…_

Tensions are high. When all of us are awake and active, we can barely stand each other. Sade seems to have a problem with everyone, Admire is constantly quibbling with Canicus, and when Jet gets irritated everyone has to listen to him growling to himself. I wonder if things would be better or worse if Con were around. I tend to think they would be better, if only because Con is so remarkably good at diffusing tension.

I suppose that my mind automatically goes for the worst parts of our time together. Just before we all tried to get some rest, someone (Admire, I think) made a joke and we began to calm down a bit…

_"And, in conclusion," says Admire, "never look a gift horse in the mouth. Because it might be a real horse, and then it will bite you."_

_A chorus of chuckles echoes around the camp. Then there is a shocked silence, as though it is a miracle that any of us were able to laugh at all. Even I laughed, and I think it is a general rule that I don't laugh, ever. There is a sort of camaraderie about being in an alliance in a situation where only one of us will end up living. We're all aware of it, and we still choose to band together. It is a testimony to our strength, our fearlessness._

_"You're kinda funny," says Sade, sounding mystified._

_Admire laughs. "Of course I'm funny, darling Sade. I'm sure you could be funny too, if you tried."_

_"You're both wrong. The only funny person here is me." This is Canicus speaking._

_Sade turns to him with a smirk. "Oh yeah? Tell us a joke that will make us laugh."_

_"That's easy," says Canicus. "Your fighting skills."_

_"Oh hell no!" says Sade, but everyone else (with the exception of Jet) is already laughing. At first Sade glares at us sourly, but gradually the dark expression on her face filters away and she begins to chuckle as well._

_It seems as though this moment will continue forever, and even as I think it, everyone stops laughing at once. Silence is ringing through the camp, and it seems as though we've all remembered where we are, and the danger of making friendships, even of enjoying a good joke. "… Let's get some rest," Canicus suggests finally, and the evening spirals into darkness…_

Thinking about that makes me feel odd. I don't trust these people, and I never will. If I die, it is extremely likely that my death will come from one of them. Who would it be, I wonder? Who would be the most likely to kill me?

In the end, I decide that if I _will_be killed by a Career, it will probably be Admire. She will use that beautiful magnetism of hers and I will not be able to resist the draw of her words, the sweet caress of her blade. I realize that my palms are sweaty and that I am shivering, but my mind continues down this path. I can see the bright red blood dripping from the gaping wound in my throat, and the kiss Admire plants on my tanned forehead. Yes, if I had to put money on my killer, I would put it all on her.

With a resigned sigh, I turn away from my allies. I have to assume that they won't kill me, not so early in the Games. It would be pointless for them, anyway. They'd be better off waiting until later, when I am undoubtedly going to be weaker. I will provide protection and a false sense of hope until then.

I think that our alliance boils down to just that: a false sense of hope. Because even with a large group of us, all fighting for the same thing, only one can win. As for the others, they were confident for nothing. Their confidence ended up as dust, their brains and bones and blood ended up as dust.

It is a morbid thought. But this is a morbid place.

And I still can't forget the face of Yirone, and the fact that, no matter what, only one can win.


	51. Puppets on a String

_Let us all repeat after me, Nina/Phoenix is tired and lazy and has been doing holiday stuff and updating blew her mind. She is so tired it took her 20 minutes to convince herself to get on the account._

_And she apologizes for being a loser X_X_

_BUT HEY! Next update will likely be Thursday or Friday. If it's on Friday, I'll update Sunday. IF it's on Thursday I'll update Saturday. There will be NO update on Tuesday as it IS Christmas. I will see IF I can update on Christmas Eve though IF I HAVE TIME! We have a big to do on that day, so I might not. If not, the next chapter will go up on Thursday...unless I feel generous and do it sooner._

_Much love and sorry for the wait. Armani double header baby!_

* * *

_Sean Armani of District 10_

_Arena, Day 3 Morning_

_by cottoncandychoctop_

* * *

'_Wisdom, compassion, and courage are the three universally recognized moral qualities of men.__'_

_-Confucius_

* * *

"Mother f-"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I begin this wonderful morning: slamming my forehead with as much force and momentum as my body can muster up from a resting point straight into the ridiculously low rock ceiling above me and unwillingly realising various profanities out into the sulphur filled air around me. And now, a show of hands, who wants to trade places with me? Going once...going twice..._sold, _to absolutely no one.

Okay, in my defence, I'm not really as blockheaded as that sounds. A little context might help clear this up for you. So imagine this, you're lying in a three-by-five metre bunker, barely big enough for all of your six foot one frame, which for the first time in your life you resent. Outside, your world is a burning earth, raining bullets and bombs, the air is thick with sulphur and charcoal and human blood fuels the ground. You haven't been asleep for long, lord knows it's nearly impossible to sleep in this hellhole for a few minutes let alone hours, but you've finally managed to force your extremely overworked heart to take a break and settle down to a normal rate for a few precious moments. And when at last some merciful higher power decides to give you a brief moment of reprieve, and you manage to doze off for a few blissful hours, the loudest, most deafening, most ungodly noise ever created by nature or man thunders around you, causing the entire earth to shake and tremble in its wake. So what do you do: you sit up as fast as is humanly possible, forgetting just how tiny this little bunker is, and you smash your skull against a few tonnes worth of rock. Suffice to say: the rock wins. And goddamnit does it hurt.

"Ouch."

My head throbs so hard I can legitimately feel my own heart beating against my skull. Needless to say, it's not a particularly enjoyable sensation. But that pain doesn't last long, not when it has to contend with so many others. Take for example the stinging pulsing in my upper arm, a result of one too many nasty battles with barbed wire lost. And then of course there's the hunger: the all consuming, stomach-wrenching, insides tearing each other up hunger that's become such an unwelcome companion over the last two days. I've been hungry before, being an outlier means that hunger and I are on very close terms with one another, but never like this. Never to the point where I honestly saw how it could kill me.

The flash of silver in the corner of my vision is a welcome sight, and I don't think I could have gotten up any faster if I tried. I'm outside and unfastening the clasp on the package before I've even thought about double checking for safety: I guess sometimes hunger can trump survival instinct. Maybe that says something about me, or maybe it's just a human thing: who knows? Either way, I don't die, so I suppose it doesn't matter all that much. All that matters to me right now is the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread that fills every inch of my mind as I open the canister. It's only after sinking my teeth into the still-warm pastry that my eyes take in the few words printed on a small white card at the bottom of the canister.

_Watch your head moron, you just might need it._

I look up at the sky above me and roll my eyes while giving Aleah the biggest bloody smile I can conjure, despite my mouth still being half-full at this point.

"Yeah, yeah, sis," I whisper between mouthfuls, "Thanks for the life-saving advice."

But as my teeth tear off more and more chunks of bread I can't help ignoring the strain in my jaw and the constant clicking that occurs with each closing of my mouth. And better yet, I know exactly who to blame it on too: Damian Blackwater, District Eight.

Let me set the record straight here, in case you haven't picked it up yet, I'm about as violent as a wobbly-legged new born baby lamb. I mean look at me, I just used a livestock related simile: and I'm from _district ten_. If the cliché in that doesn't say something for you I don't know what will. But take my word for it, if and when I see that district eight prick again I will make sure to return the sentiments he showed me. I mean what a douche: okay so I accidentally ran into the back of him and nearly pushed him into some barbed wire, it's not like that's much of a murder attempt. We were _in a maze_: excuse me for not stopping to look around every corner to make sure that no self-righteous thieves were loitering around. He didn't even give me a chance to apologise, just launched right into the attack. Obviously he's just a top class person.

But of course after thinking about Blackwater my mind is immediately flooded with bombs and guns and blood and pain. The bloodbath, and damn, did it earn its name that day. Only two days ago, man it feels like it was a lifetime ago. Surely it wasn't only two days ago that I said goodbye to Aleah, a mere forty eight hours ago that I first got a glimpse of this inferno and only three thousand minutes since it had happened. Since I had last seen _her._

(LINE BREAK)

Look, this may not exactly come as any kind of surprise to you, but let me just clarify anyway: barbed wire _really _freaking hurts. Now, obviously, this wasn't exactly a revolutionary revelation for me, but it still bloody well came as a shock to be thrown _face-first_ into it. Luckily for me, my reflexes had been slightly faster than Damian had anticipated and I'd been able to turn my body in such a way that my arms went up to protect my face, meaning that my upper arm took the majority of the blow but the feeling of my own flesh being torn, the thin skin barrier forced open as the metal was thrust into it was excruciating. And having to use those very same muscles that had just been torn in two to get myself back up off the ground wasn't exactly a pleasant experience for me, but it was that or wait to have a missile dropped on my head. In comparison, a little anguish was preferable.

That was when I had first seen her. I knew exactly who she was, even despite the slight hue of the firelight reflecting off the onslaught of rain blurring her features. No one else would be traipsing back and forth between the trenches with their arms outstretched in front of them. No one else would teeter and stumble in the mud as they crashed into the sandbagged walls beside them. No one else would be jumping out of their skin and turning around at each colossal '_boom,' _of another landmine being set off. Anyone else would know to be looking up at the guard towers, would be able to see the shaft of a machine gun being pointed at them. This girl was Londyn Aureole. The blind girl from district six.

Her mud-drenched copper hair clung to her face, and blood was streaming down her cheeks from a deep gash on her forehead. Her clumsy gait was slightly uneven as she carried what appeared to be a slight limp in her left leg and her upper arm was charred from what looked like a shrapnel burn. She was stumbling around aimlessly, the pale skin of her palms being cut open as she accidently put her hand out onto some barbed wire. Watching her stagger around helplessly, Aleah's words from what had been only hours ago began to ghost back to me.

'_You go nowhere near that Cornucopia, understand? It doesn't matter what's there, how tantalisingly close the supplies are to you, you do not take _one _step towards the bloodbath. You turn around immediately and hightail it back the other way. If you see another tribute, no matter who it is, you go nowhere near them. And for the love of god if you see a career within ten metres of you, you make sure they don't get one inch closer. You die in that bloodbath I promise you I will make sure your eulogy is a damn pathetic one.'_

They had been pretty simple instructions, even for me, but surely this had to be an exception. I mean the chances of Londyn making it out of a regular bloodbath alive were pretty slim, but this? In this literal hell, where bullets and bombs fell with the rain, where trenches and tunnels carved an intricate maze through the mud, where smoke and gunpowder clogged up the air, here they were almost non-existent. So for some reason when I had seen that tall dark skinned man aiming his rifle down at Londyn from his perch up on a guard tower Aleah's words completely left my mind and my body just started moving on its own.

I ran straight towards her, yelling, 'Londyn move!' but it was completely inaudible above the cacophony of gunfire and explosions around us. As I got closer and closer to her my eyes kept flitting back to the man with the gun, his finger edging closer to the trigger with each passing moment. Once I was within range I dove out towards Londyn, semi-tackling her as I pushed her out of the path of the bullet, milliseconds before I heard a loud, '_thud,'_ as the bullet sank into one of the sandbags behind us. Londyn screamed as we both fell into a barbed wire fence in our path, and immediately a sharp stab of intense pain began to pulse in my upper left arm. I let out a small hiss of pain as I looked over to see the blood begin to spurt out of the wound, the sight of the gash making the burning pain seem oh so much worse.

Ignoring the scream of protest in my arm I pushed myself up off the ground and turned around to Londyn. There were more scrapes and slashes across the dotted skin of her arms and her face bore a look of absolute fear and shock. I had extended my hand down to her to help her up and I saw her arm moving out towards mine in what I thought was her accepting my help.

And instead she punched me right in the face.

And I'm not talking about some wimpy little tap or anything, I mean she _punched_ me. This chick had one mean right hook, and almost immediately I could feel a throbbing pain radiate through the entire right side of my face. Not only had I been decked by a girl, I had been clobbered by a _blind_ chick. Alright, I guess I deserved that for underestimating her. Believe me it wasn't going to bloody well happen again, not after that. But I could see her lining up to hit me again and although I was prepared for it this time and managed to grab her hand before she made contact I immediately realised I probably needed to explain myself before I got the shit bashed out of me.

"Wait! Stop, I'm not going to hurt you," I had stammered out defensively, hoping that my pleading tone sounded as genuine as it actually was, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to help."

Londyn immediately looked sceptical, and started firing back at me, "Right, and launching me straight into barbed wire was helping me how?"

"Believe me, a few scrapes from some barbed wire are nothing compared to a bullet through the chest."

"A few scrapes? Do these look like a few scrapes to you? You go get your flesh torn by sharpened metal and then you come talk to me about just how minor a few 'scrapes' are."

"Look, you can't see where you're going but I can guide you," I pleaded, anxiously checking to make sure the gunman wasn't reloading his rifle and taking aim again, "If I can help you make it to a shelter you'll be able to wait out the worst of this in safety. Just let me help you and then I'll stop bothering you."

She seemed to quickly consider her options, neither one appearing particularly appealing, before giving me a quick, "Fine," and getting back up onto her feet.

"We need to get you out of the open," I said as I looked around for any kind of shelter, and failed, "We're sitting ducks out here."

She nodded, and despite flinching when I put one arm around her shoulder to guide her, didn't fight against me when I began to lead her through the trenches. As we ran I whispered instructions into her ear, telling her when to duck, jump, dodge and turn whenever an obstacle approached. I kept an eye out for any more trigger happy gunmen but luckily I only had to shield us from one bullet, immediately dropping us both to the ground when I saw a little blonde child aiming her gun our way. It had taken a good twenty minutes of weaving our way through trenches before I had eventually found a safety bunker. It was positively tiny, only about three metres wide either way and so shallow rooved that I had to duck a little to fit in, but Londyn was considerably smaller than me, plus it was cover and that was all we really needed. Beggars can't be choosers I suppose. I helped Londyn sit down in the corner of the bunker before walking over and watching the entrance.

"You should be safe here for the next few hours at least," I had said as I ripped the edge of my sleeve off and using it as a makeshift bandage to tie around the gash on my arm, "As long as you're quiet and no one stumbles into you, you shouldn't be found. There's no food but if you wait it out till it quietens down you'll be able to go outside and find something."

Londyn's lips began to quiver and her eyes started to water as she curled herself up into a feeble position.

"Th-thank-thank you,' she stammered in between each small sob, "I was- I was _so_ scared and I didn't know where I was and I- I thought I was going to _die_ and-"

"You can drop the act," I said with a small smile and a little chuckle, "You're a damn good actress, there's no doubting that. But here's the thing: not only did you just absolutely knock the crap out of me back there you also gave me hell afterwards. The girl who decides to deck her potential attacker and then verbally abuse him, she doesn't come in here and cower like a frightened puppy."

She paused for a few moments before a tiny coy smile comes across her lips, "Can't blame a girl for trying."

I chuckled a little at that, "I guess not."

There were a few silent moments between us as I stood crouched in this tiny bunker wondering just how tough this girl was and how much I'd underestimated her, and she looked just as lost in thought as I was. Eventually she decided to end the silence.

"Okay so riddle me this," she said, leaning back against the wall of stone behind her, "Why the hell does Sean Armani decide he wants to help a poor, defenceless blind girl get herself out of trouble."

Admittedly it was a pretty valid question. Did I have an answer? Nope, not a one. I knew for a fact that Aleah would probably kill me for this, if she wasn't trying to save my life that was. If I made it home, she'd most likely give me grief about it for the rest of my life.

I shrugged a little as I looked into her ebony eyes, "He's not quite sure. Sean Armani will let you know when he figures it out himself. Maybe he just likes to help a fellow underdog."

She had scoffed at that, "Well obviously Sean Armani doesn't realise that he is in no way an underdog. He scored a ten in training, had a killer interview and has a victor for a twin sister. Londyn Aureole likes Sean Armani's odds much more than her own."

I sat down, trying not to hit my head on the roof of the bunker in doing so, "Well first off, Sean Armani is getting sick of this third person thing. And secondly, who the hell cares about odds? You may be blind but now that you're out of the literal firing line you're going to be fine. So you're not as equipped as some of the other's, you've still got a real fire in you. You'll be kicking ass and taking names in no time."

She smirked a little at that but didn't speak up.

"Plus, statistically, I imagine my odds are pretty good. But really, how many of the other tributes do you think honestly consider me a threat. I'm not Aleah; I'm not as smart as her, or as strong as her. I don't know how to play the game like she did and as we've just proved my killer instinct is quite severely lacking. I'm not a frontrunner, I'm just normal. Unremarkable. An underdog. Someone no one really thinks stands a fighting chance."

Londyn continued to sit in silence, but her obsidian eyes watch me with a seemingly knowing curiosity. I couldn't help but stare at the blackness of her eyes, the delicate splatters of gold on her cheeks and the patchwork of small dots on her arms. Those weren't the marks of someone who was unremarkable. I may have called her an underdog, but looking into the deep black fire of her eyes I wasn't quite so sure anymore.

"I should probably leave you to it then," I had said, getting up in the process, "I did promise to stop bothering you after all." And it's not like I could stick around. For one Aleah would have my head within seconds, the last thing she'd think I'd need would be to be carrying around a blind girl for the next few days. But more than that I knew I couldn't keep helping Londyn, not if I wanted to win. And I did still want to win, more than anything. Plus I doubt Londyn would want me around even if I offered, and I meant what I said before. No one should count her out yet; she's got some serious fight in her.

"That you did," she said with a smirk, "But do me a favour?" She asked nonchalantly, "just what does it look like out there? "

Just for one small flicker of a moment, I was almost jealous of Londyn for not knowing. Because the things that I'd seen I'd probably never be able to unsee, not after all of this. But I knew that that was completely and utterly stupid. Here I was, in the middle of some ancient-style battlefield, the entire world around me covered in fire and gunpowder, and I was jealous of a blind girl. Talk about irony.

"Those barbed wire fences we...um..._fell_ into before," I started, conveniently ignoring the slight sneer on her face at my attempted deflection, "About one hundred metres behind those is the cornucopia, and it's facing towards the sky rather than down on the ground like normal. We're in a really complex maze of trenches; the walls are made of a combination of mud, wooden blockades and sandbags. There are planes flying up above us dropping bombs and bullets, those are the explosions you can hear, and there are guard towers positioned all around the battlefield with gunmen shooting down at us-"

"Wait," she cuts me off, "Who are the gunmen? Avoxes or something?"

I give my head a little shake, "I don't know, but I don't think so. The ones I saw all looked pretty thin, and none of them had any outstanding, capitol-esque features. I think-I think they might be from the districts."

"Bastards," she whispered venomously, and she didn't have to clarify just who she thought were the bastards. I knew exactly who she was talking about. Making our own people rain bullets over us, it was more brutal than anything. Wasn't it bad enough that they got to send us in here, now they got to physically kill us as well. Yep, bastards is about right.

I smiled at her, "Pretty much."

"So what's outside of these trenches?" she asked, wiping away some of the blood dripping down her face with her sleeve.

"Well there's a huge minefield surrounding the trenches but what's behind that I have no idea," I admitted casually, "My advice would be not to stray that far. No offence but I don't see you and a minefield mixing too well."

"Blind jokes?" she said with a grin, "Cruel. True, but cruel."

I laughed and moved over towards the exit to the bunker, "You're going to be fine, Londyn. But good luck just in case."

She gave me a small glimpse and muttered, "Yeah, good luck to you too, I s'pose. And, Sean?"

"Yeah?" I turned back around to see her looking at me, her onyx eyes reminding me strangely of stars glittering in the darkness of the night.

She bit her lip for a second before continuing, "Just so you know, act or no act, the guy who helps save the poor, defenceless blind girl: he's not unremarkable. In fact I'd say he's pretty damn extraordinary. Off the record of course."

I laughed and muttered, "Of course," before turning around, walking out of the bunker and returning to the game.

* * *

I don't even realise that my hand is ghosting along the plane of my still bruised cheekbone until I accidentally lean down onto it, forgetting that it had been absolutely clobbered a couple of days back, and the quick shoot of pain through my face causes me to flinch back and knock myself against the wall behind me. _Again._ Some places just aren't built for people my size. Either that or I'm just a total moron: you can choose which one I suppose.

I quickly duck my head outside of the bunker and grab the billy can I left lying on the ceiling last night. It's been my one counter strike against the worst thing about these games. I mean giving us no weapons, fine I can deal with that: in fact it's probably a massively great thing, you know, since no big bad careers can come and impale me on something sharp. But no food? And no water? Now how is that going to entertain anyone? Dehydration may be a serious issue but it's hardly the kind of deaths that the people in the capitol enjoy, they' probably much prefer the aforementioned impaling. What? Admit it, it's true.

Even though I haven't been able to find any water sources per se my one compensation is that it's been raining freaking cats and dogs on an off this whole bloody time, so by leaving this billy can that I found in one of my bunkers the past few days lying out over night I've been able to collect enough to live off. Oh hell yeah I'm still thirsty, water is really not something one should be resourceful with in this situation, but at least I'm not, well, dead. These are my options people; sure you don't want to trade again?

As far as weapons go I've had to make do with what I've got around me. The small knife that Aleah managed to send me on day one was invaluable because it meant that I could use it to sharpen some wooden stakes I found lying around after a couple of explosions. Between that and some makeshift skewered spears I had forged using some barbed wire and more wooden stakes and I was as geared up as any melee, guerrilla warrior could hope to be. Admit it, your laughing at the prospect of me being a guerrilla warrior, don't worry I am too.

I'm not exactly a stranger to roughing it out, back home everyone's had to do it tough at some point. Whether it was some cattle getting out and having to chase them down across the outback stretches for hours, making it way too late to get home so you just have to sleep out under the stars and hope to god it doesn't rain. Or if a horse was about to give birth and you had to make sure you were there when it happened. Even just getting lost in the huge open plains as a kid and having to find some shelter so the coyotes don't find you out on your own. I'll admit, I'm guilty of all three of those and in comparison sleeping in this bunker is like sleeping on a rose scented quilt of feathers and silk. But maybe this is the one advantage that we outliers have that nobody else does: we know how to survive off the bare minimum. We can't fight like some of those giant, ridiculously strong guys from one and two but we've all been hungry, thirsty, had to risk life and limb just to get by. I guess that that's one thing that gives us more of a chance this year than any, especially now that we're all in such a dire situation. I'd love to see how some of them are doing right now, maybe that in itself is the entertainment factor the Capitolites are looking for. What I wouldn't give to see how Admire is coping right now...

Anyways back to relevant information. Even though the bunker has helped keep me safe this past twenty four hours, I know that I can't stay here: as much as sitting here and hoping that everyone out there kills each other is tempting I know it's hardly a realistic prospect. So, after ducking my head to make sure I don't slam my skull into the roof _again_, I warily take a small step out in the open. And I immediately regret my decision.

The minute I step outside, gunfire begins to rain down on me. Actually that's not technically correct, gunfire begins to rain down about three metres behind me. Whether the people in the towers are just really awful shots or whether they aren't actually trying to hit me, I can't tell but either way I feel pretty confident that running for it is the best possible option here. I begin weaving through the maze of trenches around me, the bullets following me with each step, never getting closer but never getting further away either. I turn left around a corner, intending to try and head out towards the minefield when the bullets suddenly begin to break the ground in front of me rather than behind me. I immediately retreat and turn back around, going to the complete opposite direction to the one I want to be heading in. With each turn the firing changes direction, and sometimes I have to do a full one-eighty to make sure I don't get a face-full of metal.

_They're trying to herd me somewhere, like they did with those walls moving in on Aleah last year. She got moving rock, I get bullets. Lucky me. _

My lungs feel like they're on fire as my legs begin to feel the strain from all this exertion. The pain in my ribs doesn't exactly make things an easier either, and once again I can feel the few measly inches of new skin that had grown over the wound on my upper arm split open, causing more blood to pool out of the gash. Brilliant. I feel like I'm about to collapse when I make one sharp turn to my right, skidding to an almost sudden stop and causing the dirt around me to fly up into the air as I realise I'm staring at crudely made wall of sandbags and wood.

_Shit. A dead end._

Suddenly, mercifully, the firing stops, and I'm about to thank whatever higher power there is until I look forward a few metres in front of me. There, only maybe five metres in front of me, is what looks like a two square metre silver plate, kind of similar looking to the ones that brought us up into the arena. Only once I stop to catch my breath in front of it, looking at it apprehensively and wondering why the hell the Gamemakers have brought me to this dead end, I realise that it's not at all like the plates we came into the arena on. For one, rather than elevating, this one descends down into the depths of the earth below, leaving me staring at some sort of opening into the ground beneath me.

_Okay...?_

The obvious confusion begins to set in, and I'm pretty much ready to turn around and walk as far away from this creepy little scenario as fast as possible when the silver parachute catches my eye. Coincidence? I'm starting to think that I don't really believe in them anymore. Sure enough, this time I'm proved right.

'_Sean, what you most desire is in that hole. We both know it's your only chance. So are you going to risk it?_

_Love,_

_Phoenix Snow.'_

The note falls to the ground as its implications begin to settle in with me. A whip, that's what she's put down there for me, a whip. And just the thought of it makes my entire body shake with anticipation and I fight my immediate reaction to dive headfirst into the opening on the ground. But only because some tiny little semblance of intelligence in the back of my brain tells me to stop and think, and luckily I manage to listen to it. There has to be a reason she's doing this, I kind of doubt that Phoenix is the kind of girl who decides to give people everything they want and need simply out of the goodness of her heart. Does she even have a heart? Whatever her reasons for wanting me to do this it's going to be because it's in _her _interests and, just generally speaking here, Phoenix's interests don't exactly tend to match those of the tributes. Need proof? I'm sure there are a good twenty-three dead tributes from last year that would be willing to vouch for me here. Except they can't...because they're dead. Proof in itself.

No. _No._ How can I even be thinking about doing this? It's insane: completely and utterly insane. I'd have to be an idiot to so much as consider this...

Okay, so I guess I'm an idiot.

I can hear a dissonant blend of deep, rumbling grunting sounds emanating out of the cavern below, making my entire body start to quake. She's definitely not going to have made it easy for me, that's a given. But at the same time she's right, we both do know that I've got no hope in hell without that whip.

Damn I hate this, and what's worse is I know exactly what Aleah would do in my position. She would walk away without a second thought and find herself another way to win. She'd never even consider putting herself deliberately in the line of fire, not for anything. But Aleah would have been fine without any weapons; she won with nothing more than a few big knives for god's sake. Me, this is it. This whip is my _only _shot and I, and apparently everyone else on the planet, know I'm as good as dead without it. I mean honestly a small knife Aleah had sent me on day one, a sharpened stake and a few barbed wire skewered spears, how are they going to go against swords and knives and arrows and Jet's bare hands? Obviously not so damn well.

So my options are basically: go down into that hole, take on whatever unimaginable monstrosity waits down there and in all likelihood die. _Or_ wait it out and pray to any and every higher power that some rare horse-related disease that I've developed an immunity to floods through the arena and kills everyone else because honestly without a whip and short of some miracle they might as well start working on my tombstone. I know, they both sound so damn appealing it's a shame I only get to pick one. Last chance for anyone who wants to trade places...

I step up towards the edge of the entrance to the hole, my toes dangling off the tips of the rock, begging my eyes to make out some shape amidst the darkness but it's pointless.

_You're an idiot. You're a total, complete, absolute idiot. You're playing right into her hands. You know you're playing right into her hands...and you're going to do it anyway aren't you?_

I heard once that when the time comes to make a choice, the choice itself is already made. I guess that's why I'm not quite so surprised at myself for doing this. Appalled? Yes. Horrified? Yes. Surprised? Not so much.

I tilt my head up and give the sky, and more precisely Aleah, a small, apologetic smile. She's not going to like this, not for one second. But I have to try, I have to at least attempt to make use of this opportunity, or just wait for the grim reaper to come knocking further down the road.

"Sorry sis." And then I'm freefalling into nothingness, until my feet touch base with the concrete below me and the screeching pain of impact causes me to fall against one of the smooth walls beside me.

For a few moments, the darkness is all-consuming. It's one of those moments where everything is so pitch black you're not even sure where you are or if you even still really exist. But just as the grunts and groans begin too echo off the walls towards me, the sounds chilling me to my bones, a huge burst of light causes me to flinch and immediately bring my hands up to my eyes to obscure the blinding flash. For a few seconds, I just stand there with my eyes closed to the light, trying to let them adjust to this newfound sensation of potential sight. And it's only when I can bear to open my eyes to the light around me that I dare a peek outwards, and regret immediately wish I hadn't. Instinctively I lurch backwards, double checking to make sure that my eyes aren't playing some kind of trick on me, because this just seems way to impossible to be true.

"You have got to be kidding me."

* * *

_Aleah Armani, Victor of 24th Hunger Games_

_Control Room, Same Day_

* * *

'_But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams  
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream  
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied  
so he opens his throat to sing._

_The caged bird sings with a fearful trill_  
_of things unknown but longed for still_  
_and his tune is heard on the distant hill_  
_for the caged bird sings of freedom._'

_Final two verses from 'I know why the caged bird sings,'- Maya Angelou_

"_Everyone has a breaking point. Deny it, and you'll blind yourself to know when you've reached yours."__  
__―__Dorothy McFalls__,__The Huntress_

* * *

"Moron."

God he can be brainless sometimes, that brother of mine, but its generally when he's at his comedic best. I mean only Sean would manage to go to sleep in the freaking tiniest bunker I have ever seen, completely forget that he's over six foot tall and then only remember upon bashing his skull against the ceiling of the damn thing. Obviously, despite the gene pool being appallingly unevenly split in his favour, I managed to get a couple of good bits of DNA in me: namely the ones to do with awareness.

I quickly type in the instructions for a small bread roll to be sent down to Sean on the projected computer screen to my left. It's not much but it's cheap and despite the fact that the arena is devoid of any little morsel of food, weapons or any clean standing water I've been able to keep Sean alive for this long. Of course Sean being Sean already had sponsors lining out the door for him, between that training score, his interview and him being my twin and all he was a crowd favourite. People loved the idea of a twin back-to-back victory, I mean who doesn't? It'd be like some huge, amazing fairytale. My only issue with it, there's a little too much fairy in the tale. Oh and of course the amazing irony is that there is only one person on the entire face of Panem who wouldn't be an insy binsy bit happy to see Sean come out of that hellhole alive. And of course, by some sadistic and unimaginable trick of fate, she's one of the few people who actually matters.

Speaking of the embodiment of all that is horrific and wrong with this planet, Phoenix and her little cronies must have had an absolute field day planning this thing. I mean talk about over the top. Surely the whole gritty, dirty, blood-ridden war theme would have been enough for them but no, she needed to chuck in a few gunmen, a maze of trenches, a minefield and even an upwards facing cornucopia just to spice things up a little. Oh and then of course that little cherry on top: no food, no weapons and no supplies. Honestly? In my mind there's a line, way back there so far in the distance that I need some serious binoculars with which to see it, that reads in big, bold, golden letters, 'DO NOT CROSS. CROSSING THIS LINE WILL MEAN GOING PAST THEATRICALITY AND TOWARDS INSANITY. AT THIS POINT ADDING ANYTHING MORE HORRIFIC AND TERRIFYING WILL HAVE MEANT YOU ARE SIMPLY MAKING THIS A JOKE NOW. SERIOUSLY: DON'T CROSS. I'M BEING _REALLY_ SERIOUS NOW. NO WAIT _DON'T_...OH FUCK IT.' But apparently, nobody here seems to appreciate the seriousness of this line. I tell you now, no one with a brain half as fucked up as Phoenix's would be able to pull this off, but then again that's why she's the one running the show after all.

But maybe it's time to give her the sack, I mean haven't we reached the point where this is just so damn _boring._ Okay, the arena is horrific and threatening and there are district people gunning down on their own and yada yada yada. That was interesting on day one. But this is day three now, _day three_, and only _five_ people dead? And they all bloody died in the bloodbath, well except for that Bastian kid, oh crap there's the mental picture of that wack job from two tearing off his skull again for you. You're welcome. Surely there's a whole bunch of bloodthirsty, sadistic sons of bitches sitting around in some Capitol bars who have drunk a few too many martinis and just want to see one kid impale another. I mean honestly, the _only_ interesting thing that has happened in this entire game so far was that that little boorish blonde from one had rung her belt around that hick from four's beefy throat. And who can we thank for this one little spark of entertainment? Who else? I'm not even in there and I'm responsible for a fifth of the current death toll.

Despite still being haunted by everything, despite still being submerged in this absolute pit of self-hatred and loathing, if given the chance to trade places with Sean this instant I would take it without even a second thought. I mean really, how easy had it been for me to take out that slimy, half-witted bozo from four? These people may have enough brawn to take on some seriously juiced up body-builders but trained assassins or no they're all still just your regular career tributes: invariably big-egoed, thick skulled and easier to screw over than your common floozy. Someone amongst them would inevitably decide to take Con's place within the group at some point and realise that this alliance can't last forever, and if I was down there that's the first weakness I'd hit. Of course there are freaking weaknesses _everywhere_ this year so it's almost hard to pick just who I'd go for first, there's just so much opportunity. Curse Sean and his innate, unwavering goodness. Couldn't he just, I dunno, put that strong sense of morality and integrity on hold for a little while and embrace his inner me?

All the others, well let's just say I haven't mentioned any of them for a reason. What's that reason? Oh that's right, they haven't actually done anything. Nobody has freaking done anything yet. I mean honestly, by our day three I had already killed Maia (easily too), caused Boston to absolutely flip his lid (even easier), and already had my complete game strategy planned that would ultimately lead to my victory. How are these two-bit pansies going? Obviously not so hot. Okay so your life sucks, people are shooting at you and dropping missiles on you and you're hungry and thirsty and you don't know where you are and you want your mummies. Well here's a tip from your trusty auntie Aleah: if you want to get the hell out of that little piece of purgatory you are now currently trapped in _you need to do something about it. _Sitting there whining about it, not going to help any of you one little bit. And that was your free, three second trial of 'advice from a past victor': to purchase the full programme simply send in three down payments of $39.99 a month and we can have your limited edition CD to you in a week's time.

But saying that, there are still a couple that I've been keeping my eye on. The kid from three was one to watch, and I only say that because I in particular have been known to underestimate certain tributes from district three *cough* Jules Surket *cough* and I don't plan on making the same mistakes again. Look at me, learning and developing. Believe me, I'm just as shocked as any of you are. But the kid from twelve worries me immensely as well, there's just this certain slightly unstable look that he gets in his eyes that makes me think he's a few sandwiches short of a picnic in respects to the whole morality thing. Wow, and now I'm considering district twelve tributes threats, who'd have thought it? My issue with that drake kid is that I just don't see who it's going to be to take him out: maybe Canicus if he could find him, possibly the kid from three, of course the psychopath from two would give it a good go. I wonder if one is allowed to send a bomb as a sponsor gift...what? Come on, as if that wouldn't be the best freaking plan in the world, 'Oh look someone sponsored me! Hooray! Someone must think I'm a worthwhile human being! Wait, what's this? And why is it beeping? Oh, no-" What? You don't think putting bombs in parachutes is realistic? Fine, screw you all, one of these days my ideas are going to be legitimate ones and you're all going to feel like idiots. It'll happen, just you wait and see. It'll happen.

"Miss Armani?"

I recognise the voice without even having to turn around. I don't even know why I'm surprised to hear that oh so shrill and annoying Capitol accent reverberating from behind me. I mean she was here yesterday at exactly the same time, and the day before that as well. I guess third time's not the charm hey? I turn around in my chair to face the nameless woman with the perfectly sculpted chestnut hair, all my hatred and rage focusing in on this brainless bitch. She extends her overly manicured hand out to me, a small, folded white card trapped between two of her lacework nails. I continue to glower at her but despite the fact that her hand is physically shaking and her plastic smile does nothing to hide the all-consuming fear in her eyes, she doesn't run away screaming bloody murder as I'd hoped. I take a deep breath before turning around, the thought of looking at this awful hag any longer making me feel physically sick, before drawing on all the venom I have in me and threateningly murmuring.

"Put it over there."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the small white card come to rest next to my elbow, and I wait to hear the sound of the moron's stilettos get further and further away, but I don't. I turn around to face her again, standing up to my full height this time and taking a step in so I'm looking directly down at her, despite the fact she's in six inch platform heels and I'm barefoot she's still a good inch and a half shorter than me.

"What the hell are you still doing here?"

"It's from Head Gamemaker Phoenix, Miss-" she starts but my loathing glare bores holes into her eyes before I cut her off.

"I know who it's from, you brainless twit, so save the speech and get the hell out of this room. Surely your _numerous_ talents are required elsewhere."

The bitch couldn't get out of here faster if she tried, not that I blame her. If I had to do what she has to do every day I'd be scared for my life too. Because I swear to god if that woman shows up tomorrow I might not hesitate to rip out her throat. It's just so bloody tempting. Okay so I have anger issues, don't you think after all this time I'm probably allowed to?

I don't even have to read that damned white card. I already know what it says. It says the exact thing that the one that came yesterday said, and the one before that, and the very first one.

**Tribute Training Center Tower**

**Floor 10**

**Room D**

I rake my hands through my hair and yank as hard as I can, hoping the pain will keep my focused and withhold the approaching blackness threatening to consume me. Putting my elbows back down on the desk and rubbing my temples as hard as I can, I try to reign in the dark feelings around me, attempting to hold back the ghosts beating forward against the wall I'd fortified so many times in my brain.

I know exactly why she's doing this to me, and it has nothing to do with 'needing experience,' like she and that stuck-up, goon of a clone of hers keep saying. This has nothing to do with my 'lack of experience.' This is purely about how much pain they can inflict as possible. They know exactly where to hit me to make me keel over. She just wants to hear me scream. Good thing my pain threshold is pretty high, there may be cracks forming but that hoe is going to have to start upping the ante if she really thinks she can break me.

But even still, this constant reminder of how once again she's turned me into one of her pawns always seems to take me back to that dark place. It's like the walls of my cage just keep pressing in and in around me, and despite however hard I fight just to keep breathing I can see myself running out of air. And admittedly, it's bloody terrifying. Goddamn claustrophobia.

Its almost unbearable as everything begins to once again clog up every freaking fibre of me, but luckily a voice manages to break through the silence and snap me out of whatever deep, dark, monstrous memory my masochistic brain decides to churn up.

"Are you ever not in here?"

Scarlett Everly, district six mentor and the only person with the authorisation to be in this room who is younger than I am. I turn on my chair, my ice blue eyes meeting her bright green ones and give her an impish grin.

She was one of the few people whose Games I could remember; well you'd have to bloody well hope so considering she was only the year before me. Similar to Heath, she was almost a complete and total fluke. I mean she only physically killed one person. She'd allied with the boy from eight who had taken one look at her and fallen head over heels in love with her. Luckily for her, that kid from eight had the highest training score out of all the rest of them. Whenever any kind of opponent showed up she didn't even have to lift a finger, the poor love struck brute did all the work for her. When the two of them came down to the final two he declared he couldn't kill her. She'd said the same, and then plunged a knife through the back of his chest and into his heart when he had wrapped her into his arms. It had been a complete shock to all those drama-junkie Capitolites who had been _sure _that she was in love with him too. But to anyone with a brain, i.e. me, it was fairly obvious she was just in it for the perks. I won my Games with my brain; she won hers by batting her eyelashes a few times. Needless to say, I kinda like her style.

"Nope. Because obviously I'm a natural at this whole mentoring thing," I respond with a wink, "You on the other hand could deal with a few pointers."

She rolls her eyes, "Is my tribute still alive? Yes she is."

"Only because my blockheaded git of a brother had an attack of conscience and decide to save her blind ass," I point out with a smirk. It was what had got us talking in the first place. I'd been scandalising a few pampered victors with my extremely colourful vocabulary as Sean proceeded to get himself decked because he'd tried to help that Londyn chick and had quite vehemently yelled that Sean should have just got up and left her to get shot. Scarlett agreed with me, saying it probably would have saved us all some time. Right about then I'd decided that this girl was one of the few victors around that I would be willing to tolerate. I don't know if you'd call us friends per se, more like two people in common situation with a common outlook on life. Look at me, being all technical and whatnot.

"But alive none the less," she concluded, "but honestly when was the last time you left this room? If you don't get the hell out of here soon we're all going to asphyxiate from your BO."

"Okay one, I do _not_ have any kind of bodily odour about me: Carmen's got me so thoroughly drenched in her latest perfume that if anything you'll asphyxiate on _that_. And secondly I left this room last night thank you very much." Not a lie, I did leave. For forty-five minutes. And came back significantly more tired than I had been when I left.

My eyes dart to Heath, who had strategically placed himself on almost the exact opposite side of the room from me. After the first night I had been perfectly content to never speak one word to him again for the rest of my life. But then that airheaded bimbo showed up with that second white card and everything changed. He had been the one to go to Phoenix when I had showed it to him that morning; I already knew that it was pointless. But he'd been the one to demand that this had to stop. To decree that he just wouldn't keep doing this. And she responded exactly as I told him she would.

'_If either of you wants to see Sean return home I won't hear another word of this from either of you. This is about showing me that Aleah is prepared to suffer the consequences of her actions, and that she won't ever do anything to challenge me again. I want to see the blood flowing from her knees as she repeatedly bows down to us. It'll be my greatest pleasure to see the great Aleah Armani at my feet, begging me to spare her brother.'_

And then of course there was the next note she sent me that afternoon, after the chaos of the bloodbath had calmed down and the majority of the mentors and tributes had gone to sleep. But not me, I was there in the darkness, my eyes held hostage by this new message and my heart filled with a combination of utter dread and blinding fury.

_"Edrick Quillheart was a warning to the Districts that it is by our mercy alone that we don't kill all twenty-four tributes. But for you, Aleah, it means much more. He is a warning to you, wouldn't it be a pity if another missile found Sean? This is your only warning, Aleah."_

Edrick Quillheart. Never met him, never wanted to. Never talked to him, never even bothered to consider learning his name just because of how damn unimportant he was going to be to these games. And yet, somehow, I'm the one who killed him. Add his name to the ever-growing list of people I've advertently or inadvertently killed. Just in case I needed another ghost to haunt me, maybe Phoenix thought I was getting a little bored of the old ones. Well isn't she just the sweetest?

The shadows of my mind begin to press in on me again but luckily Scarlett's voice grounds me once more.

"Did you not show up for mentoring one-oh-one?" Scarlett says with a smirk as she flops down into the chair next to me, chucking a bread roll at my head in the process, "When your tribute is sleeping _you _are sleeping. Even the great and powerful Aleah Armani can't do battle with her body's needs forever."

I snort, managing to catch the bread roll anyway, "Please, like I could sleep right now. What if Sean gets throttled in his sleep and I did nothing because I was too busy catching some zs? I'm sure that would do load for my currently severely overworked conscience."

She laughs a little as she sticks a piece of cheese in her mouth, "Alright so say he _is_ getting murdered in his sleep, just how do you plan to deal with it? You send him anything to warn him and it's like a giant beacon to anyone near saying, 'Hey everyone! Sean's here!' And by the time he's found there's nothing you can do to stop it, so you might as well try to address the ever growing problem of the bags under your eyes because seriously, I could bury a body under those things."

"Would the two of you pre-tweens please shut the hell up," Ava Hobbs booms from the other side of the room, "Some of us _legitimate_ mentors are trying to do our jobs."

"Oh shut up, Ava," I say with a dismissive wave, "You need to loosen up. Go drown a kitten or something, surely that will be just what you need to cheer you up."

Chuckles and snorts echo throughout the room as Ava's face turns such a luminescent shade of red that I legitimately think she's about to explode when her eyes flicker to a giant screen above my head and a small sneer covers her pudgy pink lips.

"Well maybe you can buy one as a replacement for the brother you're about to lose and I can drown that one," she says with an evil looking grin and my stomach immediately drops out from underneath me.

"What?" I whisper quietly as I fling myself back around to face the screen behind me. Sean is running, his breath coming in short, raspy intakes and sweat pouring down the side of his face as a whole flood of bullets follow him. I immediately curse myself for being so damn stupid and not paying attention before locking my eyes on the screen and clutching the arm of my chair so damn tight I nearly break it off. Heath gravitates towards me, neither one of us willing to make eye contact, but I think he's trying to make sure I don't suddenly turn into some raving psychopath. Okay so it happened _one _time. What was I supposed to do when Sean got his ass-handed to him by a blind chick?

All of a sudden, Sean turns a sharp corner, straight into a dead end, and the gunfire behind him stops. I'm about to thank each and every higher power ever worshipped that Sean managed to not get a bullet through the chest before a small patch of ground in front of him begins to peel back and a small opening into the ground below him is revealed.

Oh this can't be good. This can't be good at _all._

And just when I think things can't get any weirder, a small silver parachute descends right down in front of him. Sean looks as confused as I do as he extends his hand out and opens the small metal parcel attached to it.

"Who sent him that?" I ask to everyone in the room, turning on my feet as fast as I can, trying to find some kind of explanation. I get one, but not from the source I want. A camera zooms in on the small white note in Sean's hand, and my entire body begins to quiver with dread as I recognise that oh too familiar cursive handwriting. _Oh fuck no._

I run over to the computer and beginning typing faster than I ever have in my entire life, bashing the keys so hard that the touchpad beneath my fingers looks like it's halfway to cracking. Oh well: anything I can do to add to Phoenix's maintenance bill. Three words on one tiny piece of paper, it's pretty much the cheapest thing I can send him, but it's going to be bloody effective. God I can't believe that moron is even thinking about this: did he not listen to anything I said? I swear the next time I get my hands on that idiot I'm going to throttle him: and mark my words I _will_ get my hands on him. When my message is ready I take one final look at it before readying to press the big green, 'Deploy,' button on my projected screen.

_Don't you dare._

**ITEM REQUEST DENIED**

"What the..."

I look at Heath, and from the reaction he gets looking at me it's pretty damn obvious that my face _screams_ approaching insanity, 'This isn't what I think it is, is it? It _so_ better not be.'

Heath doesn't say anything, just looks back over to the giant projected screen to our left, on which Sean is inching closer towards the entrance to the cavern holding god knows which unfathomable beast Phoenix and her psychopathic lab rats have developed this time. Oh god, he's getting closer to the edge. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to kill everyone. I run over to Scarlett and slam my fists down against the bench next to her, making her pretty much jump out of her skin.

"Send this message to Sean," I say, my voice rising about six octaves higher than it's ever been before, "Now!"

She doesn't even begin to question me, she just gets typing immediately, her typing skills considerably more advanced than mine, well hey don't judge she has been here a year longer than me. But once she slams her fingers down on the deploy button those bolded red words jump out off the screen again.

**ITEM REQUEST DENIED**

I immediately turn around to face the rest of the people in the room, most of whom already have their gazes fixed on me anyway, looking at me like I'm some weird exotic species that they just don't know how to approach. Well fair warning, no one should dare cross me right now, I'm in a highly murderous mood and despite all these witnesses have no doubt I can make it look like an accident if necessary. And oh god it would feel good to punch someone right now.

"Anyone! I will sponsor each and every one of your tributes, or I will deliver you some greasy, balding billionaire on a platter for you and get them to sponsor you. Just someone send my brother that message right _now_ to stop him doing this. _NOW!" _

In spite of my booming command for haste, the majority of these half-witted meatheads just sit there with their ridiculously large gobs wide open staring at me like I've gone completely off the deep end. Some of them back off a couple of paces, making sure that they're out of my arms reach, probably a fairly smart move given the circumstances. But those sparse few who do manage to use those pea sized pieces of meat they keep hidden in their skull and turn around to begin typing commands into their computers all seem to be met with that same bold red text.

**ITEM REQUEST DENIED**

**ITEM REQUEST DENIED**

**ITEM REQUEST DENIED**

I will kill her. Right now all I can do is come up with more and more inventive ways to slaughter Phoenix Snow. Murdering her in her sleep seems far too placid now, and I've moved way beyond quick, efficient and polite and straight on to long and excruciatingly painful. I should have killed her and her devil-spawn offspring when I got the chance. But I can't focus on the vivid array of methods for murder spontaneously popping up in my head right now, not when Sean is edging closer and closer to the edge of that opening.

"Sean don't do this," I shout at the TV above me, "He can't do this. He won't."

I can see the mental battle going on inside him right now; can see the lines on his forehead furrow as he weighs up his options. Slowly but surely he takes a step in towards the entrance to the underground.

"Sean _no!_" I scream, bashing my fists against one of the giant plasma screens on the wall, completely ignoring the fact that he has no chance of hearing me through a television screen: not when we're physically hundreds of miles apart, "Don't do it! They're trying to bait you into this; this is a complete set up! You _can't _go in there! Sean don't!"

He looks up at the sky, the cameras perfectly capturing the guilt-ridden, conflicted look on his face as he gives me a tiny, apologetic smile.

"_Sorry sis."_

"_DON'T_!"

And as Sean's head sinks below the surface of the ground, a small metal disc shutting off his only chance at escaping back through the opening, I let out one more rabid shriek, bashing my fists against the screen so hard that it cracks beneath my blow, glass shards shattering out causing blood to course out of my open knuckles and down my forearm. But I don't even feel it, the pain doesn't even begin to register. The only thing I can think as Heath grabs my wrists and pulls me away from the shattered screen, forcing me down into a chair below one of the smaller television screens above our heads, is a thought considerably more painful than any bloodletting blow could ever hope to be.

_This is it. He's going to die. And it'll be all my fault. _

* * *

**SEAN ARMANI**

* * *

Bulls. I'm trapped in a tiny, concrete room with half a dozen bulls. I know: if these horrific creatures don't kill me the irony just about will.

But as I look at them for a few moments I can see that their much more than just your everyday run of the mill Bessie. For one, these things are freaking huge, I can literally see the muscles in their huge torsos and quads throbbing as they breathe. The bloody things have to be at least three hundred kilos in weight, maybe more, I mean with that much bulk these beasts could give a steam roller a run for its money in a head on collision. But even that isn't the strangest part: their huge pink eyes widen in the light and I can see their pupils shrinking as they look around them. I've seen that look on cattle before: these things are angry. _Really _freaking angry. Lovely.

And then of course there's the really bleatingly obvious fact that I probably should have mentioned first: these brutes don't just have two horns, they have a shitload more. I mean we're talking four or five huge, long, very sharp looking horns per bull. _Come on. _Just in case these monsters needed extra help taking out lil' old me they were given some extra fire power. I didn't even have to think twice to see that these beasts were definitely not anything that anyone could have just found lying around in your standard cattle pen.

Mutts. Why does it always have to be mutts?

But then something kinda hits me: these things, mutts or not, are still cattle. For the first time since entering this goddamn hole I actually feel a little bit of confidence rise up in me. I've got this. I mean I've been working with cattle since before I could spell my own name. Genetic engineering or no, I _know_ how bulls work and how they react to high-pressure situations, after taking a couple of them to an abattoir anyone would understand how they function. I know where the weak spots in there hide are and how to take them down if necessary. If this is really what I need to do to get this whip then maybe I'll actually be able to make it out of this alive.

But more than that I know how very dangerous this situation is. Even with regular bulls you put yourself in the wrong position and things can become very ugly. Looking at the horns on these creatures (all fifty thousand of them) and the ridiculously overproportioned amount of bulk they're carrying (so much so that I am legitimately questioning if it's genetically possible that they're so freaking huge) I know that I can't let myself get trapped between them. Those horns could skewer me like a piece of corn on a shish kebab and as much as I feel like getting turned into a piece of minced meat the irony would just be too much for me to ever live down.

I'm actually feeling like I might live through this and I'm just about to make my first move when the lights are switched off and the entire room is plunged into complete darkness.

_Really? Really?_

With my eyesight down for the count the rest of my senses seem to heighten, almost like they're trying to compensate for the loss of vision. I can feel the air moving as the mutt's deep heavy breaths cause vibrations in the ear and I can smell the dank musky stench of their breaths like they're standing right in front of me. I can hear the panting and the groaning of the mutts coming from the other end of the hall, they're huge muscled bodies the only things standing in between me and that whip. Taking on six genetically engineered, multi-horned overly powerful and muscular cows: simple right?

_Okay Sean you can't go on the offence here, not when you're so greatly outnumbered. Just keep yourself from getting mauled and try to slowly get closer to the whip. Once you've got it, everything will get a hell of a lot easier._

I close my eyes, not that they were of much use in this pitch black anyway, and my heightened eardrums search for the familiar sounds I know will meet my ears. Sure enough, the pounding of hooves against the concrete beneath me is my first indicator and I quickly dodge to the side with my arms outstretched, just in time to feel the hide of the first mutt charging beside me. Quickly using my outstretched hands to gauge where the weakest spot between the huge creatures ribs is, using both my hands and all the force I can I plunge one of the rough wooden stakes into the thick hide of the mutt, hearing a low dissonant shriek as I felt it's thick blood splatter all over me.

_One down._

As I take a few steps in the direction of the whip I'm not fast enough to get out of the way of the next incoming bull and as it slams into my side and presses me against the wall I manage to, luckily, avoid it's horns piercing my skin. I grunt as the momentum of the bulls movement causes my head to fling back and my cheek to slam against the wall of rock behind me, feeling the anguish bull's weight pushing harder on my already bruised ribs. I immediately drop to the ground and push myself off the wall with all the strength in my legs, dragging the small sharp knife under the mutt's underbelly as I slide underneath it before I hear the huge 'thump' as the bull's considerable bulk falls to the floor.

The sound of the next mutt charging at me is fairly obvious above the silence, and like I'd done so many times as a young kid jump to the side right before it's about to hit me, before wrapping my outstretched palm around one of its numerous horns and hoisting myself up onto the creatures back, straddling the beast as it continued to run forwards. The bulls begins to buck wildly, trying desperately to remove its extremely unwelcome rider, but with one arm latched tightly around it horns and the other grasping onto the skewer adorned with barbed wire I had made previously I manage to hang on long enough to plunge the sharpened metal down into the exposed skin in the bulls neck. It writhes around in pain, throwing me off its back in the process, before I hear it fall in a heap on the floor. I ignore the shooting pain through my ribs as fly through the air and crash onto the floor as well as the sharp stinging sensation that shoots through my arm as I push myself back up onto my feet. Well, I was never going to get out of this scot free.

I run forwards towards where I know the whip will be, hoping that I'm not to be met by one of the three remaining bulls but my luck only lasts out for so long. I hear movement coming from both sides beside me and immediately drop to the ground. The two bulls crash into each other and after I hear a definite 'crack' sound one of them immediately slumps to the ground and lands right on top of me, my torso caught underneath the ridiculous weight of its hind legs. I groan as I attempt to push it off me, the muscles in my arms aching from the exertion as I try to push the beast off me before getting trampled by another one. Somehow, mercifully, I manage to push the dead carcass off me and roll over to my side just as the hooves of another mutt stamp down exactly where my head had been previously. I launch up onto my feet, my chest heaving up and down as I try to regain my breath, and begin to move towards where I know the whip is lying. I know how close it is, how teasingly close I must be to it. And I think that's why I don't quite pay enough attention to the sounds coming from my right until I'm slammed into the wall beside me and blood begins to pour out from my side.

I gasp in pain and grimace as the huge horn drives its way through my side, the writhing pain so strong I can feel every nerve in my entire body screaming out as the fiery pain begins to course and throb through me. I can feel my flesh tearing at my side as the bull rams further towards me, and despite my knife being lodged into the thin layer of skin at its neck it still has a ridiculously large amount of strength. I hear the shuffling of its hooves on the cement above the roaring of my heartbeat in my head as it begins to step back, preparing to ram into me again. Despite the feeling of blood gushing down my side and the all consuming agony pumping through me I lurch out of the path of the bull, just before I hear it crash into the concrete right where I had previously been standing. Knowing I can't keep up this fight for much longer, I muster up every single morsel of strength I have left and dive forwards towards the whip, my arms outstretched and my finger wide as my hand slowly but surely grips around the whip.

The minute my fingers clasp around the edge of the stockwhip's handle, that intense white light floods the room again, making my eyes water, and all the sound around me disappears. My ears stop ringing, the dark splotches on my vision evaporating as my gaze flits around the room, a complete wave of relief hitting me at the incredulousness of what it is I'm seeing right now.

The mutts are gone. I'm completely and utterly alone.

* * *

**ALEAH ARMANI**

* * *

I can't breathe.

The fire in my throat is excruciating as I gasp for air, desperately trying to heave in any miniscule amounts of oxygen but each haggard breath sends another round of liquid fire down my windpipe. My lungs claw desperately for sustenance but the rapid, uneven intakes of air coming through my mouth aren't nearly enough. The pounding of my heart in my ears and the uncontrollable shaking of my entire body consumes me so entirely that black splotches begin to appear in my vision and I can't sense which way is up anymore.

_I can't do this. I can't do this. _

The shaking and choking is terrifying, so much so that I feel more like I'm dying now than I ever did in the arena. What the hell is wrong with me? Why on earth is this happening? Why is my body just shutting down around me: my windpipe shutting, my heart going into some form of arrhythmia? This time last year Physics died: well today Biology just got buried in the grave next door. Stupid freaking mortality.

"Aleah!" Heath's voice is barely audible above the roaring drum of my heart pounding in my ears, "Aleah, breathe!"

I shake my head, feeling stolen tears cascade down my cheeks, "I- I ca-can't. I can't br-breathe," I stutter out through gasping breaths. Oh god what's happening to me?

Heath turns and whispers something to Scarlett and she gives a quick nod before getting up and running off somewhere. Heath turns back to me and grabs my hand; gripping it so damn tight I swear he breaks a few of my bones. Great, just what I needed to add a little extra to this day, broken fingers. Stupid insensitive brute.

"Yes you can," he says strongly, his piercing gaze considerably stronger than I would have predicted, "Just focus. Everything's fine. Sean is fine. You're going to be fine."

I quickly pull my hand out of his, "I may-may be panicking bu-but that does n-not mean w-we are all buddy-buddy all-all of a s-sudden."

He rolls his eyes, "You're going to be _just_ fine."

"Wha-what's wrong w-with me?" I splutter out, trying to calm my raging pulse, and failing miserably.

Heath smiles a little, and if I had any control over my limbs right now I would throttle him, "There's nothing wrong with you Aleah. This is just how people respond when someone they love is in danger."

_Pathetic saps like you perhaps, _I can't help but think, _but me? This is _not _how I respond to danger. _

"Can you walk?"

I shake my head pitifully, knowing the trembling in my legs and the severe misunderstanding of how gravity seems to be working right now definitely would not be a good combination with movement. Heath doesn't need to be told twice, and within milliseconds he scoops me up off my feet and into his arms, carrying me towards the door. If I hadn't been semi-catatonic right now I would have absolutely lashed into him for even considering this, but given the situation I was prepared to let this one slide. Never mind the fact that I would never, _ever, _live this down. Everyone else in the mentors' room is looking at me like I've gone completely insane, and I can't say that I wouldn't be doing the exact same thing. Not that they didn't already think I was insane or anything, now they just have certifiable proof. Look you'll get no argument from me, it's official now: I'm definitely a few peas short of a casserole if you get my meaning. Damn it now I'm hungry. Great job Aleah, marvellous work.

Heath carries me down the hallway a few metres before turning into a small, heavily embellished sitting room where Carmen and Scarlett are sitting waiting for me. At the sight of me Carmen's face turns grave, and she quickly gets up off her feet and helps Heath put me down onto the couch next to her. Scarlett gives me a quick smile and a small wink before getting up and leaving the room. Heath begins to follow her, turning back to look at me for a few moments. His eyes dart to Carmen and I could swear to god that that look in his eyes is almost something along the lines of...worry? Surely not you idiot, you must just be imagining that. But Carmen gives him a reassuring nod before he quickly turns around and shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

I sit on the couch for a few moments, trying to remember how that whole respiratory process works again. You know the one: oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Apparently it's somewhat important to the human system. Carmen doesn't say anything, just sits and waits for me to speak.

"So I guess I'm insane, hey?" I say meekly, a really pathetic attempt at covering this up.

Carmen rolls her eyes before giving me a small smile and pushing a glass of water my way, "You wish it was that simple, darling. If having to actually _deal _with your emotions means you're crazy, than you're crazy. But so are the rest of us normal people."

I just sit there in the silence for a moment, trying to hold back the panic and the rage that are settling in around me, hoping that with some time they might just fade away. No such luck it appears.

"He's okay, Aleah," Carmen says gently wrapping an arm around my shoulder, "He's a little worse for wear, and my god he looks awful, but Sean is fine."

"He's _not _okay," I counter, getting up off the chair and turning back around to face her, "As long as he's in there he'll never be okay. So he lived through this but obviously Phoenix has it in for him and that's entirely my fault. So next time when all hell breaks loose, and trust me there will be a next time, what if he doesn't live through it?"

Carmen sits still, her face not betraying anything as she lets me continue to rant, pacing across the floor in front of the couch.

"He's in there because of me. If he dies, it's because of me. And even if he doesn't he'll come back as fucked up as I am right now, probably even worse because of how horribly good natured Sean is, and that will be _because of me."_

I rake my hands through my hair again, the pain surprisingly comforting, "I wish I'd just never-" I start, not quite knowing how to express the absolute turmoil bubbling inside me, "I wish I hadn't-I wish I had just-" I have to stop myself from saying it, because I know I can't mean it.

Even without me saying it Carmen understands where I was going, "Died? You wish you had just died in that arena?"

"I _can't._" I say, still pacing back and forth in front of her, "I can't freaking wish that I died because that's not fair. Because twenty-three people did die, and even if some of those imbeciles maybe did deserve it, they all still fucking died so that I could stay alive. So I can't wish I was dead because saying so is like another great big slap in the face to all the people who died and everyone who hoped that they wouldn't. I'm not allowed to want to be dead, not after all of this."

I slumped down on the couch in front of her and put my face in my hands.

"And I _don't_ wish I died, not really. I still want to live, I'm glad I'm alive. But this isn't really living. It doesn't even matter really," I whisper into my hands, "Aleah Armani did die in that arena, and look at what came back," I say with a pathetic smile and a weak gesture to my ridiculously feeble self, "some weak, pathetic excuse for a victor living under the pretence of being the girl she used to be. Pathetic."

"Aleah Armani is sitting right in front of me," Carmen says reassuringly, taking my hands in hers and squeezing gently, "And she's just as strong as ever. More than that, she's _stronger_. You're not broken, you're just bruised. Caring this much about your brother is not a weakness, it's a strength," Carmen says gently, "And you are definitely not pathetic."

I'm not sure how much I believe her, but even so it's reassuring to hear it. Maybe she's right, maybe I am still here underneath all the darkness and the pain. I vowed I wouldn't let that heartless monster break me, promised myself I wouldn't shatter into a million pieces. Perhaps a few cracks along the way were inevitable but I still feel like Aleah is here underneath all those shards. And she's going to help Sean win this goddamn thing, and then she'll be here when he begins to feel like he's about to break. And more than that, Aleah Armani is going nowhere, not now, not ever. For some reason that word that I'd used those last few hours of the arena begins to flood my mind again.

_Survive. _

"Right," I snort, feeling another hot tear trickling down my cheek, "Because all this choking and blubbering and spluttering is _such_ an indicator of strength."

"You've been strong for the last thirteen months Aleah," I can't help but notice she looks a little smug, "and you've had a shitload of terrible things happen over those thirteen months. You don't have to be invincible all the time. You're definitely owed one meltdown. Or two, or three, or twenty. And I'll be here every time to remind you that that's okay."

"Don't worry, this will _not_ happen again," I promise, one hundred percent certain of myself this time. Well at least I am until Carmen speaks again.

"You love your brother, Aleah; I swear to you this will happen every single second of every single day until you know that, either way, he can't be hurt ever again."

Well fucking brilliant.

_Survive, Aleah. Just Survive._

* * *

**SEAN ARMANI**

* * *

I let out a few small burst of laughter, my uneven, breathy chuckling probably looking hysterical to anyone else watching me right now. And even though I could still feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins and my whole body shaking in fear waiting for more of the bull-mutts to show up I couldn't stop laughing. I did it, I actually survived that. My hands tightened around the stock of the perfectly crafted whip in my hands, and I couldn't help but do a little fist pump in victory. I made it, and now I get to reap the rewards. All of a sudden, the scales have seemed to tip a little in my favour.

Once the amazement of me actually still being alive wears off a little, I take a few moments to admire the weapon in my hands. I can see immediately that it's in absolutely beautiful condition. The wooden stock has been perfectly carved, and I can't help but snort at the 'S.A.' carved into the cane. The six-plaited leather thong of the whip looks to be at least two and half metes long, a little longer than I was used to but nothing to be all too worried about. The tapered rawhide fall appears to be considerably higher quality than the ones on any of the whips I'd ever owned throughout my life and I knew that the cord cracker fastened expertly onto the end of the whip would be far more effective than the cheap hay band crackers I was used to.

With a renewed energy and ignoring the protest in my ribs, I grip the stock tightly and raise it above my right shoulder, before using all the strength in my arm to bring the whip down onto the stone below me, the familiar, '_crack_,' of the leather hitting the stone making my skin tingle. Somehow, everything had worked out okay. But as the sound bounces around the room, constantly revisiting me and filling me with a newfound lightness, I can hear another sound amidst the crack of the whip, one that doesn't at all seem to fit in place. A strange, soft scuttling sound passes through my heightened eardrums, so weird that I have absolutely no clue what it is. For a moment, I think I'm legitimately going mad because I've never heard anything like this in my life. But as the sound continues to gradually grow, the hustle and scraping getting louder and louder, the walls around me begin to shake a little and a few loosened stones tumble off the walls of rock around me.

There's something else out there.

"Okay, _now_ you've got to be kidding me."

And that's as much incentive as I need to absolutely bee-line it for the currently opening shaft in the roof of this cavern and get myself the hell away from this hole as quick as humanly possible.

* * *

**ALEAH ARMANI**

* * *

"Aleah?" I hear the door open at the same time I hear Heath's words. I immediately wipe my forearm across my face, trying to dispose of all evidence of tears from my face, before turning around to give him a nonchalant leer.

"What?" I try to say casually, as though I'm completely unphased by all of this, but that all goes out the window the minute I see that look on his face. I know that look: that's his, 'shit just hit the ceiling,' look. I can't help but immediately start to panic because Heath is not the kind of person to get worried over nothing.

"Okay you can't give me that look because that's the kind of look that screams, 'I need to panic,'" my stomach immediately drops and I can hear my heart thundering in my chest as I try to justify that look on his face, "Wait: Sean- is he-he's not-"

Heath quickly shakes his head, "No Sean's okay." His face screams the exact opposite.

"Then what is it?" I've seen that look on his face before, many times before, and not once has it ever been unjustified. Something's up, and with my luck it's never going to be a minor problem.

He pauses for a few moments before "I think you need to see this." He pushed the door behind him open in one swift movement and gestures for me to go through it. Carmen looks at me with a concerned gaze but I give her one, quick reassuring nod before walking through the door, back down the hallway and open the door to re-enter the mentors' room. But I don't make it more than two steps over the threshold before I literally stop in the tracks, my stomach taking another deep plunge down the apparent rollercoaster that is my abdomen as my eyes lock onto the large screen above the district three mentor Gage's head.

"Oh shit."


	52. In the Belly of the Whale

**_Thank you for bearing with me. I've had some medical emergencies involving swelling of my tongue. Sorry this is late, but tongue and breathing definately more important. Next update SHOULD be on Saturday barring more complications ..._**

* * *

_**Jonas Emerson of District 7**_

_**Day 3 of the Arena.**_

_**The Attack**_

* * *

_**"Every night when I get home**_

_**The monkey's on the table,**_

_**Take a stick and knock it off,**_

_**Pop! goes the weasel"**_

_**-The second verse of "Pop Goes the Weasel"**_

* * *

"Raindrops keep fallin' on my head. And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed, nothin' seems to fit. Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'."

The probing fingers of hunger wrap around my center, shaking me away from this moment of optimism with an agonizing pang. Instantly, I jerk straight up, only to slam my head into the crumpling shelter above my head. The world jolts sideways, wobbling back and forth. The rain pouring down on my exposed lower half seems to assault me from all angles. My mind is fuzzy, the edges of sight frayed away. Becoming dizzy, I fall backwards, flat on my back, closing my eyes and trying to get a grip on reality once again. A smile forces itself onto my face and I struggle to breathe outwards.

I've never been so hungry.

I continue singing softly. It's barely audible over the hush of rain splashing across the landscape and my chattering teeth.

The people of District Seven must be in all their glory. Because, as they sit in their homes, maybe not the coziest, maybe not the warmest, they can sleep well knowing their children are safely slumbering in the other room on their bed, wrapped up in a blanket. They can sit back and enjoy the irony of watching the mayor's son squander in the mud in the midst of a warzone. I've been hungry, but never like this. Not this gut-wrenching yank that made your head spin. Is this how the poor of the district live? How could anyone stand to live in such filth and poverty?

The logical part in me reasons that this wasn't the case. People were not this malicious. Perhaps they found a small piece of satisfaction; but did they feel guilt? Would they regret having put my name down on that ballot once they saw I am not my father?

I can't believe it though. There is a constant distressing thought that refuses to be extinguished. No matter how loud my logic is, this afterthought is a subliminal message playing the same thing over and over again. I deserved this. It was more than my birth and the man I called "father" that the people decided on. I accepted my spoils. I secluded myself from my peers. The people of District Seven only watched on with curled lips and eyes glinting with contempt. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I will always be an Emerson. I will always be the son of the district mayor.

My insides groan again, demanding nourishment. I compress my stomach, hugging it tightly in an attempt to confuse it into thinking it was full. Who cares what people at home were thinking? I had worse figures to haunt my dreams and thoughts.

And I was too busy singing a nice little ditty about raindrops!

The smile on my lips widens further and the corner of the left side twitches painfully. Everything is just A-Okay. No problems. What problems could there even be?

I lay my hand over my stomach. Gingerly, I prod the pinkie finger on my left hand. Oh yeah, there's that issue. The finger is still throbbing and it hurt to move it. I'm certain it's broken, if the blue hue of it wasn't enough of a clue. The mere thought brings my heart to pound with fright. My pinkie can't be broken. It can't be. No way. A normal person would figure "Oh, it's only a pinkie and it's on my left hand. For the average right handed person, my life will go on with only minimal hindrance." Sadly, I am not close to being of the norm. A broken pinkie meant the inability to play instruments of any variety. It wasn't a first finger or second finger, sure, but you try playing the cello suites without a pinkie and you tell me how much it's unimportant. I am now freaking out because I am musically handicapped and one of the only things I bother to care about in this damn life is fucked up. Even worse, I'm freaking out about playing instruments in a rainy wasteland where I'm as lucky of tripping over a string instrument as a mayor's son is of winning the Hunger Games!

I yell in exasperation, slamming my sand sock to the ground. I forgot I had it and hold it up to examine the stained fabric. Uh, to quickly explain what a sand sock is, it's basically a sock filled with the sand from sandbags. I lie back again and pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm not getting any awards for innovative weapons anytime soon.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Breathe and think happy, fluffy thoughts." I smile and think of sunshine, of the comforting homey sound of pizzicato on cellos and the thrum of a steady bass line.

It doesn't help.

I am letting myself slip.

After the initial start of the Games, my first achievement was tripping right off my platform. Yeah, smooth. Either my mind was spinning and processing too much too fast or the world around me decided to confuse the hell out of me and tilt sideways. For a long moment, the urge to just sit there and watch the world drown in this harrowing rain swaddled me in its vast arms. However, as all great people do, I picked myself up and continued on, weaving through the battlefield, dodging bullets and boogying through the obstacles before me. I passed by crumpling walls and managed to throw myself into a scuffle with the District Three guy. I don't know what I was hoping to do when I got him pinned. He fought like an angry devil, I'll tell you that. I backed away and caught sight of Lucian Drake from District Twelve. The way the name slid off my tongue caused a mere shiver to slide down my back and you sensed something off about this dude. District Twelve tributes, with their gray eyes and dark hair, always gave off that air of mystery and aloofness to me.

Let's say, with some quick thinking and plenty of "Oh, fucks" running through my thoughts, I sprinted and leapt across expanses of trenches with Lucian Drake trailing behind me. And with one final, mighty "oh fuck", after a derogatory statement from Drake, I fumbled with my hand along the side of the trench and watch my pinkie finger bend into a painful angle. I landed flat on my butt as well.

Leaning heavily on the trench wall, I hummed and muttered as pain radiated in my tailbone. Overhead, I spotted Lucian peering down at me, a mix of humor, and possibly pity, in his face. Pity; I couldn't stand it. I, of all people, have never been pitied. Why would you? Who would?

But I hated the look Lucian cast down on me and, filled with pride, I shouted up, "Alright, so I don't play leap frog much! You going to kill me now?" He considered this for a moment. I realized how pathetic I must look. Beaten up, scarred, and soaked, I boldly stared back at him, silently hoping for…well, I wasn't exactly sure.

"Not today, Emerson." And then he was gone. I was still alive.

Add the fact there was absolutely nothing but water in the Cornucopia. I wasn't a fish or a merman so any options of chilling in there were a no go. I blame evolution. What genes ever decided be shouldn't have fins? You can't deny it'd be awesome to say "Gills, go!" and poof! Gills sprout from your neck.

Working up the courage, I crawl out from my spot, eyes swiveling back and forth in search of my competitors. Through the opaque sky, I can only guess it is daytime, judging by the light shade of gray the clouds are. I breathe in the rainy air and am struck by a hard realization; there is no rain. It had stopped. Mist clings to the atmosphere and my eyes burn with some sort of lingering acrid smoke. My vision is not completely clear and I force myself to squint into my surrounding area. Moving outwards from the Cornucopia, the arena becomes a forest but not the kind I'm used to. The trees are not meant for lumber, but meant for climbing and hiding behind, rather tropical and jungle-like. The mud on my hands isn't quite the lovable consistency of typical mud either. It's gritty, sludgy, and each time I attempt to wipe it off my hands, I succeed in only dirtying them more.

Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through my hair. At least it was already a dark brown tone. My hair worked to my advantage as camouflage. Not like Alexis, who'd stick out with her fiery red mane….

The thought of my district partner causes a painful twist in my gut that does not help my stomach pains any further. An onslaught of troubling memories bombards me all at once. It brings me to my knees, sending my mind racing and lungs heaving. No. I am spiraling into a panic attack and not a pretty one at that. Visions wash over me and for a long moment, I cannot distinguish between reality and the nightmares I dreamt while asleep. I curl up and choke down the sobs inside me, the grief swelling my heart.

I have no right to grieve for the girl; I barely knew her. The pain I hold is incomparable to what her family is dealing with. Losing one child to the murder of crazy is one thing; losing another to the murder of your nation is entirely different.

For the most part, the bloodbath was a blur. Oh, moments stood out. I risked my skin to get to the Cornucopia, knowing it was practically suicide, to find it a lousy risk. Coccyx aching and butt soaked with mud (which, for the record, still is), I ran as fast as one could in the mud and ran away from the carnage to be caused by angry Careers. They may not get the chance to kill me with pointy sticks but one cannot doubt the power of the fist. My feet slipped and slid and I fell a number of times. My mind was racing, processing too much too fast.

It was through the mist when I saw a blur of red did I finally think of Alexis.

Jonas, you idiot! I thought. How can you forget your freaking ally?!

The red smudge of Alexis was probably about fifty feet away. Off in the distance, I heard guns being reloaded and narrowly dodged a spray of gun fire. Perhaps a fine ear did help a person in this arena, if the bombs and minefields didn't make me go deaf first. I army crawl as far as I could, shrapnel digging into my forearms and my pinky finger screaming for a medic. Roughly, I tore the fragments out of my flesh and some off the ground and pocketed them. Alexis was just ahead. The red blob started turning away. I pulled myself to my feet, waving my arms frantically above my head.

"'Lex!" I called. The girl stopped at the sound. I trotted towards her, a relieved smile on my face. "Alexis, it's me, Jonas!" I was being way too optimistic too soon.

Instantly the smile washed off my face. This wasn't Alexis.

I remembered her name was sort of weird to pronounce, Atalanta. I felt the need to skip that second A. Definitely not Alexis. The District Five girl swung her head around, searching for the source of the voice. I dove sideways, ducking behind a wall of sandbags.

"Oh," I muttered. "Why, that was awkward."

Peeking up again, I tried rising to my feet but an explosion went off just to the left of me. A spray of dirt flew into the air, the gritty pieces landing in my eyes and blurring my sight. I lost balance. My body rocked sideways and I tumbled straight down a summit, rolling, rolling…oh, and right into the barbed wire.

The world twirled for a moment, up becoming down, left being right. I spit dirt from my mouth and whacked my head against the ground, forcing it to steady itself. Looking back at my original spot, I saw Atalanta was still up at the top but running away from me. Or more like running towards the action. I breathed a sigh of relief, chiding myself to be more careful next time. Wriggling my body in such a way to not be tangled in the metal, I crawled several feet before registering the area as all clear.

Geez, Lex, I thought to myself. Where the hell are ya'?

After that, I just got up and high tailed it out of there. Later in the day, having set up a neat looking fort made of sandbags and tree branches, I pulled off my boots and socks and tried shaking the sand out of them. This, boys and girls, was entirely stupid as I ended up getting even more dirt on them. I kept one sock out, though. Hell, I needed some weapon and for some reason, at that moment, I thought I was a freaking genius by trying to figure out a way to fight with a sock.

I shoved my hand in my pocket and was rudely met by the shrapnel presiding there. I hissed in pain and jerked my hand out. Stupid move, Jonas. Carefully this time, I inched my hand in, grabbed a handful of the sharp metal, and scattered them across the ground to look over. They glistened with rain and I picked through them, finding a sharpened fragment. I crawled over to a sandbag and, with the sharpened piece, used it to tear it open. The sand poured out and I held the sock open, allowing the stream to pour inside until the sock carried a decent load. Satisfied with my makeshift weapon, I gathered the shrapnel up once again.

Alexis would have freak out if she had a pocket full of shrapnel….

I felt bad for poking fun at the girl and feared for her safety. Was she dead? The arena was rough and I was pretty bruised myself. It could easily chew her up and spit her out to be left for dead. But she couldn't be dead, no way. I refused to believe it. We would meet up eventually and figure out our plans from there. We'd fight it out together. The fiery headed girl was out there, hiding under a tree or a wall or in a trench, covering that mane with mud to camouflage, wondering where the hell Jonas Emerson was.

But, oh, how the sky loves to prove me wrong.

So, insert three days' time full of hiding, running, puking, and crying, here I was with nightmares and a sock full of sand. I grip the dog tag around my neck, examining my name on the rounded metal. Do you think the Careers would collect them after each kill, bragging about how many they have?

Did one of them collect Alexis's after killing her?

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. You can't sit here thinking about a timid little ginger. Imagining what happened to her is what got you freaked out earlier. You have to focus.

That isn't exactly easy.

I brush it off like everything else in my life and thought of what to do next. I only spare one last moment of thinking about the girl who feared sharp things, the last person to remind me in any way of home. It feels like there's a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.

Picking myself up, I swing my sand sock and sigh sadly. The urge to cry hit me but I am certain I was run dry. Any possibility of sponsors? Yeah, that was a bust. Who wants to sponsor a whiny brat who broke down in tears the first time he made camp, which wasn't actually making camp, just getting tired of walking and just lying on the ground?

"Like anyone would ever send you a gift," I laugh blandly. "Not even the dear old Mayor Emerson of District Seven."

I know sponsor gifts cost, like, a shitload of money. At day three, the price is probably getting a little up there. But would it really kill him (or me for that matter) to send something? An itty-bitty Band-Aid or a cookie? One of Ronnie's chocolate chip cookies. It could be stale for all I care. But just a little piece of home to say "Hey, I'm still here. I'm rooting for you and I have faith in you."

That's the thing about my father. I don't know if he does have faith in me. If he bet on horses, the last one he'd choose is the longshot. And he'd never bet on horses because he never takes a gamble. His life is structured and organized. He has suits for each day of the week and a schedule for the amount of time he spends doing this activity and that. This is the type of man where you know not to call for him at this exact moment since he's definitely in the bathroom. He needs stability. Everyone connected to him needs stability.

Thus, my life is as tailored as a finely made suit.

See, to best explain it, Father likes to keep all his little ducklings in a row. Especially his little boy, his shining, bright little duckling. They're brushed and waddle in step with each other, paraded for the entire pond to see.

However, all his little ducklings are in fact not in line. His second little duck likes wearing provocative feathers and messing around with other boy ducks. Basically, Bellafina is a whore. I'll be first to admit that. I'm surprised I'm not an uncle yet. Yeah, she's your stereotyped kind of girl with daddy issues.

His smallest, most rebellious duckling…she worries me sometimes. She's her usual snarky self, for the most part but there's times where she's way too quiet. It would come by for about a week and she'd lock herself up in her room, refuse to speak to even me. After that week, she was fine, her usual self once again.

But she always seemed to wear long sleeves for a while after that.

Who knows how the eldest duck holds it together? The little boy duck doesn't even know how he does it himself.

How the hell did I go from talking about sponsor gifts to talking about ducks?

"A duck walked up a lemonade stand…"

I can't remember the rest of the song. I sigh and bite my lip. I've chewed on it do often and so hard, it's raw. So now I am forgetting the words to songs.

I chuck my sand sock up in the air, bellowing all the aggravation out of me. Blood seeps from where I bit into my lip and washes over my tongue. Ouch, how hard did I bite?

I snap out of my tantrum by the sound of a surprised yell. It carries over the constant thrumming of gunfire and buzz of fighter jets. I stumble back, trip over a bush, and fall hard on the ground. My heart hammers against my chest and pulsates in my ears. Through the plants and trees surrounding me, I spy the tall tribute who had made the shout. My flustered face warms and I dig my fingernails into the ground, my left hand pinkie excepted.

A swear flies from my lips as I grasp the fact my sock managed to strike a person. The guy stares intently in my direction and I wish I had the sand sock so I could shove it down my throat. He isn't a Career but he's armed and, well, I hope the ability to wipe out competition didn't run in the family. My fingers twitch uncontrollably and I smother my nervous smile, a habit now hard to break.

The tribute I nailed with a sand sock is the one and only Sean Armani of District Ten.

His eyes settle on me, picking my dirtied face out of the muck I lay in. Slowly, hands splayed in the universal "I'm-unarmed-please-don't-kill-me" gesture, I move to my feet and rise to face him. His hand is tense around the handle of his whip and I don't doubt that he knew how to use it. It had to be a sponsor gift. Strangely enough, whips aren't just lying around here in the arena.

We stare at each other, unsure of who will act first.

The dude is in as rough shape as me. No, scratch that; he's in even worse shape. Aside from the dirt covering him, the guy is covered in blood, from head to toe. It's stained into his clothes, which are torn and tattered. A grotesque wound is visible in his right side and a nasty gash is roughly bandaged on his left arm. Blood dribbles from his nose. His eye is black and swollen. All and all, he has seen some better days. I glance to his whip once again, questioning exactly how he got it.

"So…" I say slowly. My mind buzzes like static on a television screen. Can you blame me for being a little intimidated by a dude who looked like he just bathed in blood? Speak, Emerson, speak! What will make this guy not want to kill you? "Does your sister actually play the harp?"

My heartbeat stops for a second. It picks up again and the pounding is twice as heavy in my head. It's as if it is pulsing at the same rhythm I'd face palm myself.

Jonas. You. Idiot.

That's what I come up with? No persuasion of a possible alliance or maybe a short little team effort to take out competition or find food. No begging for mercy or psyching him out by thinking I have backup in the area. Not even a short little question about having eaten anything in the past day. I ask him about his sister, the same person who killed the last District Seven guy, and if she played the harp. What was wrong with me?

It at least takes Sean off-guard. He blinks twice and lowers his weapon. I wince, ready to sprint as fast as an Amerida to an "I Hate Alexis Spurling" convention.

Sean then grins, an easy, boy-next-door sort of smile. Automatically, I can see past the gore, the war garb, to the guy who is as scared shitless as I am. It makes me want to sigh with relief. My father has drilled the importance of first impressions into me, and it applies both ways. Last name aside, he seems trustworthy and possibly caring.

The bastard is good, I'll give him that. I wasn't letting my guard down that easily.

"Uh, she plucks the strings and produces sound, if that counts as playing," he replies. I lower my hands. His hand is still on the whip.

"That doesn't necessarily equate to 'play the harp' in the sense I mean," I say. "I tried playing the harp once. Figured out how to play an amazing 'Old McDonald', if I do say so myself." My body relaxes. People. Human interaction. I need to be around people. I need to know people other than ones watching me on their TVs are seeing me be an idiot. Otherwise, I go insane.

Sean nods. "I believe this is yours." He holds out my filthy sock, wrinkling his nose slightly. I snatch it up, press the lump to my face, and snuggle close to it.

"Socko!" I cry, making a name up for the thing on the spot. Sean and I find each other's gazes and lose it. Three days of fighting and running for your life and you tend to lose a few screws.

"I should be lucky there was no shrapnel in that," he states. I consider the comment for a moment. That actually wouldn't be a bad idea.

Several replies fly through my head but I sift through them. The last thing I want is to piss this guy off. I come up with "I should be lucky I'm not cattle." Weak joke, I know, but he laughs to my benefit.

"I'm certain the only things cattle can throw are tantrums."

We laugh, only to be interrupted by a crack of thunder. The rain starts up, twice as hard, soaking me to the skin. Sean is barely visible and he's a mere four feet away from me. Wind whips by my neck and the hairs stand on end. The air is electrified with energy, setting me on edge.

Have you ever just felt something? You know, 'something', with weird air quotes around it? Like, you swear you have a sixth sense about that 'something' and it just so happens to be acting up right now? No, I am not high, and if you're just nodding along to what I'm saying right now like you completely understand, under different circumstances, I'd say, dude, stop being such a stoner. But I feel something. I swear, all my other senses are just heightened right now and I just know there's this disturbance in the force.

"Did you hear that?" I whisper. Sean furrows his brow and tilts his head upwards.

"I don't think so," he says, his voice matching my stiff tone.

I press a finger to my lips. There it is again. The grass. Someone is walking through the grass, coming straight towards us. I point in their direction and trace their path. I grind my teeth hard. There are multiple pairs of legs. They aren't making any effort of being silent. And they aren't human.

Sean Armani unwinds his whip and lets it hang loose by his side. A chill shivers down my spine like a swarm of spiders stampeding. A cold breath of air fills my lungs and my insides are frozen. Goosebumps flare up on my arm.

A terrifying, hair-raising snarl tears through the air. The grass rustles, crunching under the weight of some large creature and the mutt lunges from cover at me. In a fraction of a second, I take in the sight of its wickedly long nails, bent whiskers, and overgrown front teeth protruding from its bared, hissing mouth.

Somehow, the face of the rat is familiar.

I drop to the ground, smothering my face into the soil and draping my arms over my head protectively. The rat soars over me, its nails dragging along my back, and lands on my legs. Those overgrown teeth sink into the meaty part of my calf. Someone might as well have stuck a hot iron into my leg. I thrash about, trying to kick it off. Thunder cracks again. I scrunch up at the suddenness of the noise. It comes seemingly from the air above me. Lifting my head, I watch Sean pull his arm back and flick his wrist to send the tassel part of the whip at the attacking mutt. The creature squeals in pain and I feel a spray of warmth across my legs. Sean stares at me like I'm freaking nuts, which is probably spot-on to the truth.

"Don't just lay there," he shouts. "Help!"

Reviewing the area, I note with a sinking feeling that this isn't a lone mutt. It's a pack.

Their noses peek from behind a wall of sandbags, the tropical trees sparse in this area, and as one swift brigade, they stalk forward. My initial speculation was wrong. These aren't rats. Their necks are elongated, their snouts shorter and upturned, and there's fur on their mangy tails. It doesn't take away from the ugliness of the monsters. Where have I seen them before? The mutt closest to me hisses, capturing my attention. Its eyes are pools of black, murky water, merciless and emotionless. Its mouth bares itself, a wicked shriek coming from the back of its throat. The teeth cluttering the inside are yellowed and sharp. Long strands of saliva run from the top to the bottom.

Pools of black water….

I gasp as I make the connection.

Blackwater's ferret.

It's no secret the District Eight guy had the rodent. He mentioned it during the interviews and hasn't done a good job at hiding the fact he had it. I would say that I'd hate to think the poor creature is here in the arena but I really don't care. As of now, the bastard owed all us other tributes big time.

We are being attacked by a pack of mutant Bandit the Ferrets.

If I survived the next ten seconds, I swear, the next time I see Damian Blackwater, I'm going to punch him in the face, even if it gets me punched in the face with equal or greater force.

I climb to my feet, yet again today. First resolution of tomorrow; stop falling. Pain stabs the back of my wounded calf, warmth blooming outwards and trickling down my leg. The rain is a hard assault on my shoulders and head. It's literally painful. I glance around the area and search for a makeshift weapon to use against the oncoming swarm.

Sean kicks aside the first ferret and it lands limply in the grass. Another surges forward and he draws his hand back to strike it. In a flash, the mutt squeals angrily, a bloody line running across its eye. The ferret's thick nails scratch at the wound inflicted by Sean's whip and only worsens it. The eye becomes a bloody mess and the mutt blindly snaps at whatever is closest to it. Of course, rodents find me tasty. It dives at my exposed forearm. Seeing no other options, I swing my sock at the ugly thing, feeling the lump of sand stretch the fabric, and whack its muzzle. There's enough force behind the blow that it knocks the rat-ferret-thing back.

Its dark body (perhaps it once was white but is so caked with mud and filth that it appears nearly black) convulses in violent spasms. I stomp down on its stomach, where I can see fleas crawling in large masses on the skin's surface.

"This is gross," I say. Sean is already engaged in another fight, blood spraying and shouts being…shouted. Glancing about, my eyes settled on heap of branches a few feet away. They have all broken away from the trees. I automatically think, Weapon! A horrible weapon, but hey, a weapon! Slamming my foot into the side of the mutt's head for the last time, I scramble over the slippery grass to the wood. The mutts surge forward and as soon as my hands wrap around one of the branches, I pivot on my heel. The wood smashes into a mutt's snout, shattering on impact. The ferret shakes its head, dazed, but hisses violently. I grab a thin stick and throw it as hard as I can into the air.

"Fetch!" A few ferrets actually watch the stick fly, although, it disappears within the rain. The mutt I smacked stares intently at me and bares its jagged teeth.

I pissed it off.

I drop the broken end and scoop up another. This one is heavier but sturdier. I bring it down on the mutt and it pounded the ugly bugger into the ground. I step over it, blindly sweeping my arm from the left to the right, storming through anything in my path. Blood courses through me, but there's a considerable amount of it spewing from my leg. One after another, I bash the creatures away, keeping them at bay. It's constant thuds and the occasional overshoot where I almost fall on my face but don't. A ferret suddenly plows into me from behind and the weight of it forces me to the mud. Sharp teeth dig into my neck and I yelp in pain, throwing the creature around. I twist and grapple against the beast. My pinkie stung painfully as I held on to its massive shoulders, keeping it back. Drool trickles onto my face and I squeeze my eyes shut as it slides down my cheek. Some of it seeps into my wounds, a long cut along my cheek feeling especially painful.

Struggling to find traction under my feet, I use every ounce of strength, imagine snapping every strand of hair on my cello's bow and breaking my strings, build up all the anger and pain inside me, and thrust the mutt off of me. I straddle atop of it and shove my branch down onto its throat. The thick muscles move under the mutt's skin. It squeals and squirms but I don't budge, keeping a steady hold on my weapon.

"Heads up!"

Suddenly, Sean Armani's thick whip slashes down on the mutt, slicing through fleshy neck and its blood, so unnaturally dark, bleeds down onto my hands. I pull back, gasping for air. I was so intent on the task, I had forgotten to breathe.

I look up at Sean and the blood coating his skin slowly drips off as the rain washes over it. He looks like he stepped out of a nightmare. He might as well have.

A dark shape loomed behind him and my eyes widen at the sight. Shoving past, I throw a slugger at the beast, shouting "Pop goes the weasel!" A sickening crack comes from its skull and the body drops limply to the grass. For extra measure, I strike it once more, but it does not respond.

I look back and watch Sean take out one last mutt. It lands at my feet and I smash the butt end of the branch into its throat. The only thing I can fully process is this; the mutts are all dead. Weakly, I collapse, completely drained. There are just a few more bruises on me that weren't there before. Same goes for Sean.

Slowly, I count the dead ferrets lying around us, breathing, trying to slow my heart. It appears I have forgotten to do math and have to count and recount several times. Seven. We fought seven mutts. That's a lot of freaking mutts. That's a pack of mutts.

"You scared the hell out of them when you just started swatting," Sean states. He nudges the tree branch with his toe. "A few actually ran off." I start to feel woozy, the sudden burst of activity not combining well with lack of food. I press my palm to my neck and I probe the wound hesitantly. The blood scorches my frozen fingers. It isn't deep but the wound hurts like hell.

He stands over me, awkwardly staring down at me. I sigh, saying, "Good work, uh, killing ferret things."

"You too," he says. He grits his teeth, looking around at the carnage around us. "Remind me to call you when I need pest control." The idea of what we just did hits me like breath of fresh air.

"Dude," I say. The rain is soaking my pants and blood stains my fingers. A smirk works its way up onto my lips. "We just got attacked by giant mutant ferrets and fought them off with a whip and a tree branch." I chuckle. Sean joins in and we're back to where we started, laughing our asses off and being complete idiots. It's so strange I want to cry. Sean bends over and leans on his knees, gasping for air. I fall back and laugh like I've never had before. I at least haven't laughed like this in a long time.

Okay. We've gone insane.

Eventually, we finally calm, the only sound being short hiccups. Sean says, "I'm Sean Armani, but, uh, you probably know that already."

Like a foal walking on its thin legs for the first time, I rise to my feet, hoping not to look like an idiot and falling. I smile crookedly back. "Jonas Emerson. I'm from District Seven."

His lips become taut and his eyebrows knit together. "Jonas, right." He opens his pocket and passes over a piece of paper. It's a note card, a folded sheet smeared with mud and blood. That's not the aspect that captures my attention; in fine typewriter style letters is the name Jonah.

"It was tied to one of their tails," he says. "I'm guessing it's meant for you." His face is grim and I try to laugh it off.

"They need to hire better Gamemakers," I say, running my thumb over the black print. "The bastards didn't even bother to spell my name right."

Shakily, I peel off the sticker holding it closed.

"And the Lord appointed a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights."

I frown, scrutinizing the line. How…When I was younger, my mother used to tell me and my sisters bedtime stories. Before my father was even mayor. I was little, but this one stood out. Mother would hold me close, poke my belly and exaggerate the second syllable of "Jonah". I can't tell you what this "Lord" was. She never mentioned it in the story. I'm astounded the Capitol knew I could make such a connection. I realize there is more writing and flip to the back.

Within a beast, you shall find the compassion of your gracious Lord, swallowed up for three days. Do not anger, for you understand that it is better to live than to die. This is a tool to help fulfill the task.

-Head Gamemaker Phoenix

I hand the card over to Sean, who reads it. His face looks as confused as mine.

"I don't understand any of this." His features become tense as he reads the Gamemaker's name at the bottom. A muscle in his jaw pulses and he roughly passes the note back.

I begin to explain what I know. "When I was little, my mom used to tell me bedtime stories. Her father, during the Dark Days, had spent a considerable amount of time in District Four. There was a story from there about a guy, well, he was traveling on a boat during a bad storm and the only way to calm the sea was for him to be thrown off. I have no idea why. But it worked and he was then swallowed by a whale and stayed there for three days before being vomited out onto land."

Sean Armani furrows his brow. "What was the point of the story?"

I shrug, turning away. "I don't know. It's just a tale. But the guy's name was Jonah. Maybe Phoenix was just trying to be witty."

How did the Head Gamemaker know this story? It's a district tale after all. Not even mine. How could she possibly know that I knew this story? Why would Gamemaker Phoenix send me this in the first place?

"It's a riddle," I say. "She's trying to tell me something."

"What exactly?" Sean asks. I tear the lower section of my shirt off and wrap it around my neck to bandage my cut, ignoring how stupid I may look.

It's the third day. Jonah spent three days in a whale, or giant fish, whatever it was.

Within a beast….

A thought strikes me. If I felt woozy before, I am straight up nauseous now.

I look at the mutts on the ground. My stomach drops further.

"You got to be kidding me," I mutter.

"What's wrong?" Sean says. "What the hell is going on?"

Snatching shrapnel from my pocket, I stagger to the nearest mutt and gut it open. Its dark blood stains my hands and a coil of intestines spill out onto the ground. What the hell am I thinking? Crazy thoughts, if anything. Holding my breath, I dig my hand through the warm, wet insides, scooping out each organ to search for Phoenix's gift. My nose twitches, my eyes burn, and I turn my head into my sleeve in an attempt to breathe. The stench emanating from this beast can cause milk to curdle and if there was food in my stomach, I would have puked by now. I'm soaked up to my elbows in blood, warm and sticky against my skin.

"What…what the hell is wrong with you?" I snap my eyes up to see Sean gawking at me. I forgot about him. How the hell could I forget about him when he was standing right here? I shake my head clear of the thoughts cluttering my head.

"Phoenix is trying to tell me something," I say. "She's saying there's something in the mutts."

Sean's face looks absolutely green. Soaked in blood and rain, cutting open the Bandit wannabe because I suspect a note told me to, he must believe I am absolutely insane.

"Uh," Sean presses his lips together. "Do you need help or something?"

I stare down at the mutilated body and a shiver works up my spine so fast, my neck twitches spastically as it travels through. In spite of myself, I smirk.

"Do you really want to help me, Armani?" I say. I unconsciously rub a scratch on my nose and smear blood across it. I'm a mess.

Sean hesitates and I can tell he doesn't. He says, "Why are the Gamemakers even helping you in the first place?"

I shrug. "Maybe they just like leveling the playing field. Maybe they want to see what I'd do when I find what it is they're looking for, if that makes any sense. Who knows unless we investigate?"

Sean begins to say, "I-"

I wave my hand at him. It cuts him short. Using my best, reassuring Mayor Emerson tone, I say, "Just go. I got this. I know what I'm doing." I think.

It takes a second but Sean nods. "Okay." He starts to turn away but looks back to say "Great work kicking ferret ass, Emerson."

I sigh and work up a half-hearted grin. "Thanks for not killing me."

His smile matches my own. "Thank you for not filling that sock with shrapnel." Sean leaves then, disappearing into the rain. The confident smile on my face collapses. My shoulders sink. To think, I fought alongside an Armani. He's not like his sister at all. He's actually a pretty cool guy. Bloodlines just don't help us here in the Hunger Games. For a year like this one, it screws us over. Big time.

Silently, I get back to work.

The carcass is void of anything that I think would be out of the ordinary for a ferret mutt. I shove it aside. My hands are shaking violently and when I crawl over to the next mutt, the cut is rough and I drop my shrapnel shard. I go through the process again, picking through the slime and gunk. The creature's heart deteriorates in my hand and I toss the flesh back over my shoulder. All I have to rely on are my hands and the limited skills I learned in training sessions.

This mutt is empty too.

I move onto the third and it lays mutilated with whip marks in its flesh. I rip it open and grab handfuls of its insides, yanking them out. There has to be something here, unless Phoenix is trying to mess with me. She's messed with my life enough.

Softly, I hum to myself in a meek attempt to build moral. My pinkie aches more than ever and this search proves as hopeless as the first two. Still, I keep at it. I will find something.

Onto the fourth I go. I've gotten used to the smell and I'm now humming a song I learned to play on my cello. This is completely normal. I'm like those illegal poachers my dad puts away in jail….

Okay. I'm not thinking of the douche any more. It'll only get me all worked up.

Pulling out the stomach, tangled amongst the other organs, I find I have reached the jackpot. It's dense and as big as a cantaloupe. The first three were much smaller.

I slice open the gummy flesh, disgusted by the slurping sound created by it ripping open. The skin is tough and I struggle to saw through it. A whole new sickly scent slaps me across the nose. Twisting my head, phlegmy, watery bile works up from my stomach, burning my esophagus. The taste is horrible on my tongue and makes me want to puke further.

Hey, I did have some vomit left in me.

I pull the organ apart and feel the smooth surfaced item inside it. Wrapping my hand around the handle, I shake it free and hold it up to examine it better.

It's a hand axe.

Nothing fancy or ornate, just a simple little hand axe. The walls of the stomach were so thick on the inside; it kept the axe from slicing the beast open. The sharpened head is about as long as where my hand begins to a little less than my pinky (mind you, I have long fingers). The handle travels to halfway to my elbow. It's light but durable and I swish it back and forth to get a feel of it.

I have a weapon. I'm not completely unarmed with just a sock.

I pocket all my shrapnel, break off several of the mutts' teeth, and slide it all into my pocket. Weapon ideas later. I debate trying to skin the mutts but decide against it. Too much work and what's the point if it's already wet? I'd end up cutting myself or slice the fur to ribbons.

If only I can get a fire going, I could….

No. I am not going to bring myself to eating mutant ferret meat.

I gather up my few belongings and use my newfound branch as a walking stick. The axe swings by my side. I have to force myself from constricting it in my grasp. I have a weapon. I can actually stand a chance. My mind actually opened up. Can I do this? Maybe I can win. Maybe I can fight my way home and prove I am better than the folk at home think.

Maybe.

In all honesty, I can plan and think, If I see someone, I'll kill them. But, uh, that's the thing. I'm not a killer. Sean could have easily killed me, but he didn't which confuses the hell out of me, yet still makes sense. We aren't all designed to be killers.

"Some of us just have to work at it."

The words have to hang in the air for a while until I realize they came from my lips.

I bite my lip. Could I willing give up my humanity to save my life?

Time drags on and I can only guess at the time because, according to my watch, it's half past a freckle. When I was paying attention in science class, I do remember that you could use the path and angle and insert boring science terms here to calculate the time. But, alas, there is no such existent sun in the place of No Man's La-

Reflexes save me as I dodge out of sight the moment my eyes fall upon the person up ahead. I have to stop doing that. The girl glances behind her shoulder and her hazel eyes scan the area. She senses my presence. I become tense, careful to not move a muscle. Dark, curly hair hangs down to about the middle of her back and she pushes it back behind her ears, away from her freckled face. After a long moment, she turns back and continues to work on her hands and knees. Slowly, I peek around to get a better view of what she was doing. Expert fingers picked away at the leaves of a plant, collecting a specific part. I furrow my brows. The plant is a strange color, a pale yellow. I sigh. Rule one of foraging; don't eat stuff with weird colors.

I cringe, waiting for the poor girl to die from such a pathetic mistake. I slowly realize she's not eating it; she's collecting it and, using a small stone, grinding it down to a powder.

The girl suddenly rises and starts moving away. She's scrawny and has long legs, like a deer. Matching her cautious pace, I follow close behind. My fist clenches the axe in a vise grip and I move swiftly, not bothering to bring along my branch. I recognize her as the girl from District Nine, June-something. I don't remember her entire name. All I know is that she's up to something and a natural curious itch kept me going. A loud groan rumbles within my stomach and I press a hand to it, whispering for the organ to shut up. The District Nine girl glances back again, a fleeting look. I thank my genetics for once. My thin frame can hide behind trees and my hair is close in color to the tree bark.

June's stride increases, moving faster now, but I know she hadn't heard me. She's become anxious to get to where she was heading, carelessly disregarding her attentiveness. Hurriedly, I try to follow. I wince every time a twig snaps underfoot but hold my breath when she disappears out of sight. At one point, an imposing mass of roots entangles my foot in its grasp and I'm stuck momentarily. The District Nine girl disappears entirely. I jerk and kick and resort to hacking at the wood with the axe. I'm free in seconds, however, I realize how lost I am. Raising my axe, I stumble past trees, hopelessly searching for the petite girl. My leg aches, a slight hobble developing in my stride. The trees suddenly give out, opening into an oasis. The water burbles, the leaves overhead providing a canopy. With a start, I apprehend the fact that it's a freshwater source. The rain simply cannot be caught and sipped and drinking from random puddles brought a different kind of pang to my tummy.

Clean water is vital for survival. Fresh water also meant fresher, more edible plants.

I step out and spot the dark, matted curls of the District Nine girl. Her head is bowed as she kneels beside the water. She adds the powder of the plant she ground up earlier onto a pile already collected in her hat. How many freaking plants did that take? She must have been working on it for a while.

What is she actually doing? That species had to be poisonous. But why would she be collecting it? Is she trying to create a weapon?

I observe the oasis more closely. At the far end, it branches off into a stream that moves downhill. The source continues from here. June runs her fingers through the powder, testing the consistency. She dribbles water onto it and nods, satisfied with the results. If the powder dissolves into the water…

The girl is trying to poison us.

Without much thought, I shout, "Hey!"

The District Nine girl's eyes snap up to me. So startled, she drops her hat and some of its contents dissolve into the mud. I'm at her side in only a few long strides. Snatching her collar, I jerk her back from the water's edge. She claws my wrist, screeching wildly. Her poison spills completely, but a safe distance from the oasis. Her dog tag falls onto her shirt and I can read her full name; Juniper Harris.

"Let me go!" she demands. Juniper scrambles onto her feet, making a snatch at my axe. I jerk it out of arm's reach but she presses against me to stretch for it. Knotting my fingers through her hair (while wincing at the pressure on my pinkie), I jerk her to the side. Juniper kicks and bucks and digs her nails into my skin. And I thought controlling Alexis was difficult.

"I said, let me go!" Juniper hisses.

"Yeah, because I like my water with a dash of choking and dying!"

Her nails scrabble for my face, jabbing me in the eye. I manage to keep her at bay with my left arm. My breath comes out ragged and labored. She kicks low and she's a couple of inches off from making me infertile. The girl isn't going to let me slip. Pissed off girls, they never let you get away. She'll definitely want to kill me if she escapes. It's simple really; either I die or she dies.

And like hell I am going to let it be me.

My grip tenses. Blindly, I raise my arm and swing at Juniper. The axe's sharpened end makes impact and Juniper screams; a scream that causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end and a shiver to run up my spine. My hands begin to shake as I feel her body go limp. I release my hold on her and Juniper collapses to the ground. She holds her bleeding side and moans. The tremble in my limbs is irrepressible now. Juniper turns over. Blood stains the mud.

Her hazel eyes stare at me accusingly and her lips curl up in disgust. The pale slivers of flesh are shaking, though. Tears stream down her dirt streaked face and she shutters in breath that rattles against her ribs.

The look in her eyes; I can't stand it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I heave the axe over my shoulder and bring it down on the girl. She releases a final soft shriek. A cannon fires.

My vision narrows onto the gaping wound in the dead girl's side and fatal gash in her neck. Her hazel eyes are blank. Her body is motionless. It just lies there. All I can think to do is gawk at the corpse, as if it may spring back to life and start dancing for me. I struggle to bend down and find it even more difficult to sift through her jacket. I have to stop for a moment until part of the shaking subsides. In the inside pocket is a bundle of roots and I insert them in my own pocket. Before rising to my feet again, I look closely at her dog tag. Right there, engraved in the rusting metal, is her name and district. I tuck it into her shirt. The last thing I needed was a reminder of what I did.

I stumble back, taking one shaky step away from her, and then another. My heart races and I begin to hyperventilate as my head spins. Robotically, I move towards the far end of the oasis.

I collapse at the water's edge, scooping up the fresh water and drinking deeply. It is completely untouched from the poisoned plant and quenches my thirst. Once hydrated, I wash my hands and then my face, even taking one of Juniper's roots and biting heartily into it. The tenseness jerking my insides releases somewhat.

I just killed someone.

My hands continue to shake as I stagger out of the clearing. Tears seep from my lids. I killed someone. I killed someone's daughter, someone's friend, maybe someone's sister. Did she deserve to die?

I think of my own sister, Mariska, and her final words before I left District Seven.

Don't be like those kids that just give up. Remember to be Jonas.

I killed a person…but she tried to kill me. She didn't care who she killed, since she was obviously trying to poison as many tributes as possible. The girl lost her little game. But I won. I'm still alive. And I'm someone's child too. I have sisters who want me home. Why should my family be the ones to suffer?

District Seven thought I should enter the Hunger Games. That must be a fair enough excuse for me to be here. The same goes for that girl. Her district voted her in. It is as much as their sin as it is mine.

My shoulders wobble and cave in. Still walking, I sob, screaming and yelling and laughing awkwardly. The axe is heavier than it was before. I drag it along in the grass.

"Happy now?" I say, raising my face to the sky. Perhaps all of Panem is watching me now or the Capitol has panned onto someone much more interesting. I squeeze the last few tears free, wiping the snot from my nose. "This is what you guys wanted, right?" I plaster on a smirk, choking on a sob.

The sky, thankfully, does not respond. I shake my head, staring directly ahead. "I'm coming home," I whisper. The concept of actually getting to see District Seven again is so foreign, I don't bother to enjoy the thought. My mind had to be here. Softly, I begin singing.

"Raindrops keep falling on my head. But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red. Crying's not for me. Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin', because I'm free. Nothing's worrying-"

I take a deep breath. My limbs finally stop trembling. Rain soaks my face and clothes, clinging to my skin.

"-me."


	53. Why Won't You Save Me, Mother?

_Mama Phoenix has been having some in real life problems. Her computer bit the dust and some family problems arose. Sorry for the wait. So many emails to swim through right now, we're not sure when updates will be completely back on schedule_

_-Baby Snow_

**Gingerclaw's A/N: Halfway through my chapter I realized I was, out of habit, writing in past tense. Sorry I broke the trend of present tense! I was too busy (read: lazy) to go back and fix it, so I just finished the chapter in past tense. Hope you like it anyway! Enjoy~!**

**The Attack Part 2**

**Galla Cinder, District 12 Female**

**By Gingerclaw**

"_Taking one's chances is like taking a bath, because sometimes you end up feeling comfortable and warm, and sometimes there is something terrible lurking around that you cannot see until it is too late and you can do nothing else but scream and cling to a plastic duck." —Lemony Snicket_

I shouldn't have done it.

My whole strategy was based off hiding in the shadows, trying to stand out as little as possible so I wouldn't be noticed...it would work for a while. Not forever, just a while. There were lots of flaws, but I managed to convince myself I could possibly win.

I managed it for two whole days.

I was able to escape the bloodbath without being too injured. On a scale of one to ten, with one being the least injured and ten being near death, I received about a six. I had planned to run away as soon as possible, avoiding the bloodbath entirely, but the guards in the towers and the barbed wire and the haphazard trenches had made this very difficult. Eventually, I gave up and ran toward where I assumed the Cornucopia was. There were two ways to run—under barbed wire, or through an open but sinister field.

I picked the field. I didn't fancy barbed wire scratching me up before the Games even properly began. But, of course, with my luck, this wasn't just _any_ old field in the middle of a war zone, it was a minefield. I guess I should have seen that coming, but, hey, I was panicking!

As I was running around blindly through the smoke and the shouts of the other tributes, I stepped on a terribly placed mine. It went BOOM, and so did my leg. Lucky for me—is there such a thing as luck for a District 12 tribute?—I was only injured instead of killed. I managed to hobble around the other mines, but my leg _really freaking hurt a lot_. Once I finally made my way to the Cornucopia, and realized that—surprise!—there was _nothing there_ after all that work it took to get there, I sort of ran off to throw a little hissy fit in private.

(I know they don't help, but hissy fits are fun.)

I hid out in the forest, if you could call it that. I swear, these Gamemakers are _insane_. I knew they were ruthless from last year's Games, but…I can tell that _nobody_ expected anything of this magnitude. I mean, a battlefield? Really?

This whole arena was like that. Nothing on the scale of the Cornucopia, but they're still sticking with battlefield theme. There were trees all around, but they're widely spaced, and there are signs of battle all around. A crashed plane here. An old, broken tank there. (I tried to get in the tank. I couldn't open it. I don't think it would have worked anyway, but it was worth a shot.) There were signs of fighting everywhere: broken makeshift knives stuck in the trees, blood in foliage, trampled undergrowth. It kept me on edge.

I hid away near a trickling little stream, nursing my throbbing leg wound. I camped mostly in the same place, so my interactions with tributes were limited. I almost ran into the District Nine girl, avoiding her at the last minute, and I saw another tribute from afar. It looked like a boy, but I couldn't tell from the distance between us.

My leg hurt like hell. It was pulsing and red and the pock-marks that the shrapnel had caused kept reopening. That first night I thought I was going to die of the pain. It subsided overnight, though, and I felt healed enough to limp around the area where I was camping. I discovered that there was enough simple supplies—stuff like bendy sticks and rocks and tough grass—to make a crude sling. It took me a while to get used to the makeshift weapon, and even after this long I have terrible aim, but I managed to hit and kill a little squirrel thing that was hiding in the trees.

There are a lot of those things out there. They had little demon eyes, beady and black, that glitter at you. Creepy. They scared me a little, but it's unlikely they can hurt anyone. Their teeth were tiny, although sharp, and they would only be dangerous in a huge pack. That wouldn't be pretty—killed by a swarm of squirrel demons. They taste nasty—I ate the one I caught—but that's probably because I couldn't cook it. I didn't want to risk a fire, and besides, how could I light one? I didn't have any supplies. At all.

I had plenty of water, since I was by the stream. That was one thing I didn't have to worry about. Food was covered—there were a few plants I recognized as edible growing by the stream, and there were the squirrel things. I would still be hungry, though. Tributes had stayed away from me so far…my main worry was my leg, which might be infected.

I lay low for two days. I was planning to just try and last the other tributes out as long as I could, although I knew there was little chance this would work, as the Gamemakers obviously want us to suffer. Besides, the Careers are looking for easy prey. I'm sure most of them marked me as a bloodbath death, the little unremarkable Twelve that I am, but now that I've survived, I'm bound to be on their list of tributes to hunt down.

On the morning of the third day, I woke with a start. There was no cause for my sudden wakefulness, only a feeling of tension that filled the air. Something was going to happen today.

I glanced down at my leg. One of the new scabs had burst overnight and had started oozing blood. I swore under my breath and tried to wipe it off with a leaf. I winced as the coarse leaf scratched along my raw skin. At least I wasn't bleeding too terribly. The first night it had taken ages to clean up.

I stood up shakily, leaning on a nearby tree for support. I managed to hobble to the stream to get a drink. I splashed water on my face to wake myself up entirely, and then gently washed the largest of my leg wounds. It stung terribly.

Once I was done with the stream I limped back to where I had slept. Shuffling through the leaves, I found my makeshift sling. Time to get some food. I screwed up my face in disgust at the thought of another raw meal. Oh well. I suppose it was better than starving.

As I crouched down to grab some rocks, I let my thoughts wander. How was my family back home? Were they crowded around our television, desperately watching me make mistake after mistake? No. I was an uninteresting tribute. The Capitol might have been interested in me when I fled the bloodbath, and maybe when I tried to get into that broken tank, but other than that, I was boring. Laying low. Not doing anything. Nothing TV-worthy, at least.

Father and Sally would be watching the Games with their usual indifference…or would they? I was in the Games this year. The fear that something would happen to me would keep them riveted to the screen, unlike all those other years when they only watched because they had to. Talon, who hated the Games, always shut himself in his room. Would he this year? Or would he, too, be worried enough to watch?

I hope that the cameras weren't riveted on me now. I had grown so lost in thought that I didn't realize that the forest had gone unnaturally quiet.

I stood slowly. There was no sound of the demonic squirrels rustling in the trees. No whisper of wind in the trees. Nothing. Even the sound of the trickling stream had stopped.

I walked around back to my camp. The little creek had dried up. Odd. Must be the Gamemakers. I groaned. They wanted to spice things up for me, apparently. Death by slow dehydration, maybe. I wasn't looking forward to finding out.

Suddenly, I heard a loud rustle behind me. I whipped around. Nothing. I heard it again, from the same direction. Once again, nothing. Could it be another tribute? That was the last thing I needed. I wanted to be left well alone until I really had to fight. But the Gamemakers didn't want that, of course. They might be trying to drive me and another tribute together so we can have an epic confrontation or something.

I heard the noise again. It was coming from the West, or what I supposed was the West. It was where the sun set each night, at least. The sun sets in the West, right? Or was it the East?

Anyway, the noise was coming from the West. It could be another tribute, and a confrontation was not what I needed. But then again, it could be that this person near my camp didn't realize that I was here. He—or she—could unwittingly stumble across me, and find me ready to kill him. Or her. Whichever.

Then again…he or she could be trying to ambush me. Or maybe…

Maybe, if they didn't know I was here, I could try to ambush them.

It was a gamble. I could stay here and hope for the best. Maybe the tribute would pass me by. Or I could go out and confront him. (Or her.) I could get lucky and catch a lone tribute by surprise. The most dangerous people, the Careers, were all together. This sounded like one person. Alone, I might just match one of them…we were all in this unarmed. If it came to a fistfight I could win.

I reluctantly decided to go and explore. The noises were coming closer and closer. There was little chance that they would pass me by. If I attacked myself, I would have the advantage of surprise, and that's better than any makeshift weapon any of the tributes could make.

I took a deep breath. "I'll give you what you want, Capitol," I said grimly to the cameras. "I'll give you a fight."

I crept as best I could through the trees, tripping on foxholes here and there. I was betting on being quiet in the Arena. I had not foreseen this stupid leg wound tripping me up—literally. I swore. This was not going to help me ambush whoever it was hanging around.

I shouldn't have said anything. Speaking was a really bad idea.

Around me, the bushes shuddered. I was in an area of the wood that was more thickly vegetated than the rest, so I couldn't see my surroundings very well. Out of the shaking bushes emerged something terrifying. It wasn't a tribute. It was something I had forgotten the Hunger Games liked to involve… mutts.

They were like gigantic ferrets. They had long claw-like fingernails and huge teeth, coupled with bent whiskers and a terrible smell. I don't know how I had missed the stench before. They were hideously mutated, with absurdly long necks, upturned snub-noses, and their mouths were so cluttered with teeth that they could barely open them. Normal ferrets weren't like that. And these ones were _huge,_ taller than me. I took a step back as the nearest one whipped its long, fur-covered tail in front of my face. The scariest thing about these mutts, though, were their eyes—deep pools of black, with no emotion. They were bred to kill. They can kill me. I can believe that.

I swore again. I was in really deep trouble. They had completely surrounded me. I had no weapons, other than my puny little makeshift sling that I could barely use. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I was trapped.

"Nice giant ferrets," I muttered. "Nice mutated, giant, evil ferrets."

The one closest to me sniffed and growled to its fellows. For some reason they hadn't attacked me yet. I wonder what was keeping them. It's not like I wasn't edible. I probably looked very delicious.

The ring of evil ferrets closed a little tighter in on me. I took a step backward, only to bump into the mutt behind me. That's when they pounced.

I was caught in a whirlwind of bodies. At first, they seemed to play with me, pushing me around, jostling me. I was bruised and battered, sure, but nothing I couldn't recover from. Then they started using their nails. Little scratches and cuts. One of them scored a long gash up my cheek. I cried out in pain as my blood spattered to the ground and all around me.

The blood seemed to drive the mutts into a frenzy. No longer were they toying with me. I thrashed about with my arms, desperately trying to ward them away. If anything, this only made the ferrets more eager to hurt me. My mind was a terrified tumult of panicked thoughts.

I vaguely remember throwing my sling at one of the mutts and hitting it in the eye. It whimpered and backed away for a moment, before rejoining the fray. At this point, I was screaming in pain and fear. I was bleeding all over, they were all around me, I couldn't take this. I just couldn't take this pressure—

And then a mutt bit down hard on the lower half of my right arm.

My vision went black with pain for a few moments, my mouth letting out an involuntary scream. I felt my knees start to crumple. The mutt's teeth had sunk deep into the flesh of my arm. I was bleeding all over my body, but mostly out of my arm. I could feel the long, blood-soaked fangs sinking deeper and deeper into my limb, grating against each other. I was too shocked to let out any more noise; I just stared speechlessly as the ferret mutt slowly, almost gently, if that's possible, severed my arm from my body.

As soon as my limb and torso have been separated, the mutts stopped their attack. The one who had bit me spit my arm on to the ground. It landed with a _thud_. I felt the blood pound in my ears as it rushed from my stump, almost as if it had somewhere else to be. The world grew fuzzy. I vaguely realized the ferrets were retreating. All I could focus on was the maimed limb that had once been a part of me lying on the ground, fingers still slightly twitching. Then the world went black and I fell to the ground.

I woke a few hours later, lying on my side, blood caked over my stump. Here and there on the wound there were a few spots still oozing fluid. The pain was so bad I wished I hadn't woken up. My leg was throbbing, my scratches were stinging, and my arm felt like it was on fire. Whoops, did I say my arm? I meant my stub.

There was no sign anyone other than I had been here. I managed to stagger to my feet, leaning on a tree for support. As soon as I tried to take a step forward, my legs crumpled beneath me. There was no way I was going anywhere.

"Galla!"

I whipped my head around. There, in the shadows, was a tall, handsome man. I felt my face break into a smile. This man could help me. He could save my life!

He walked toward me, a concerned look on his face. "Galla, my sweet," he whispered in an oddly high-pitched voice, "What are you doing so far from home?"

Suddenly I realized who this was. "Father," I croaked. "Why are you in the Hunger Games?"

Father looked at me, confused. "What are you talking about, dear?" he asked, his voice echoing. "We're home…safe in home…home…home…."

He faded away. I drew in a jagged breath. "Father!" I exclaimed. "Father, where did you go?"

Behind me, a new voice called, "Gaaaahhhluuuuuhhh ..."

I groaned as I had to turn again. "Younde?" I exclaimed, startled. But there was something wrong. It was Younde, all right, but he had Talon's voice. His eyes were glassy and his clothes were similar to what I was wearing.

"Gaaaahhluuuuhhh…I toooold you not to go playing with the Han-Han-Han-Han-Han-Hannets…"

Suddenly, Younde-Talon was surrounded by the Hannets. The whole clan of them was staring at me with glassy expressions and the clothes of the tributes. The dog tags we had been given glittered in their hands. The text engraved on the metal seemed to jump out at me, even though by all rights I shouldn't be able to read the tags from this far away.

Younde-Talon's tag read "Lucian Drake, District 12". I took a step backward as Younde's plump face morphed into Lucian's pale, expressionless one.

"Galla, friend, I thought I told you to stay away from me?" the creature hissed in Talon's voice. "I warned you…I really did…."

"N-no!" I whimpered. I tried to scoot backward, but I had momentarily forgotten about my predicament. I grazed my stump against the trunk of a tree, and the newly formed scab ripped off. I let out a cry of pain. The blood began to flow anew. _Drip, drip, drip_ onto the forest floor.

The Hannet-tributes took another step forward. "I can end this," Younde-Talon-Lucian hissed. "I can help you sleep…sleep forever…you should have stayed away from me, Galla…"

_Drip, drip, drip,_ went the blood. _Thud, thud, thud,_ went my heart.

The Beth-tribute took a step forward. Her dog tag read "Maeve Morghal, District 3". "I see your future," she said in a toneless voice that rightfully belonged to Sally. "You will die. Death is ready to accept you… let Lucian put you to sleep, Galla…"

I let out a pitiful whine. My leg was oozing pus. My scratches were burning. My arm was a steady ache of unbearable pain.

Father's voice came from Simon, the oldest Hannet boy. His tag had the words "Canicus Macaulay, District 1". He whispers, "You were our next victim, Galla dear. I would have enjoyed watching you suffer by my hand, but watching you suffer by Lucian's hand would be…almost more enjoyable."

Was I hallucinating? It would seem so, but the images…they were so real….

"Ha! She should have seen the way I killed Con." This haughty voice was my third grade teacher's, coming from Louise, Beth's sister, with the dog tag "Admire Blanchard, District 1". "I would kill you slower. Let Lucian do it; he will make your death swift."

I was petrified. Every time one of them spoke, the tribute-Hannets and the Younde-Talon-Lucian took another step forward. They would be close enough to touch soon.

The next voice, the mayor's, was flat and expressionless. "Rebecca told me to let Lucian take your life," Tanner, another Hannet boy, rasped. This tribute's dog tag read "Jet Matthews, District 2". "I am tempted to kill you anyway. I think you would be better off in my hands…Lucian no longer is careful about what body parts he takes off, and you have already lost one of your pretty arms." He glanced toward the bloody arm lying a few feet away from me.

I looked over toward it too, and a roaring image of the ferret mutts stampeded into my brain. I quickly averted my eyes, but not before I heard the sickening _crunch_ of the mutt biting my arm. "Mother, save me," I whispered, in hope that she will appear and banish these monsters of my past. After all, she was dead, and I was dying, so couldn't she come and lead me to the afterlife?

The next tribute hiccupped giddily before she spoke. Her voice was slurred and drunk-sounding; I guessed its' owner was Anya Powers of District 8 before I glanced at the dog tag she was holding. My heart nearly stopped as she spoke. "Hey, Gally," she giggled in my mother's voice although her face was Jessica Hannet's, "Lucy over here… I don' think he likes ya'."

The final tribute speak was headless, so I am not sure how she is talking or which Hannet she is. Her dog tag reads "Alexis Spurling, District 7". Her voice is lost and afraid, but the message is anything but. "Death comes to those who wish to live, Galla. I think holding on is a lost cause…Lucian can take you away. Away from his Khopesh," she added, as the fearsome sword appeared in Younde-Talon-Lucian's hands. But I was choking back a sob and barely noticed. The voice was Leah's. My cute, tiny, innocent little sister was advising me to give up…to die…and she had no head…

"No…" I moaned. "Nooo…Noooooooooo…"

I curled up in a ball and began to sob. I felt Lucian's Khopesh gently touch my neck and felt it slice down. I succumbed to the darkness.

I reawaked in the middle of the night. The tribute-Hannets were gone. I was alone in the forest. My stub was still bleeding, and I felt very light-headed and loopy. I was not dead yet…but I felt like vomiting, my wounds hurt, I felt like I had a fever, and I probably looked almost dead anyway.

I struggled into a sitting position. Then I saw it.

The ferrets were back. This time they were larger, and completely black, with multiple legs. They hissed at me and taunted me, morphing from time to time into the faces of my loved ones. I let out a scream of pure terror.

To be honest now, I had been making so much noise that I was surprised that the Careers, or at least another tribute, had not found me. Maybe the Gamemakers were so entertained that they had closed off my area. But that was not the chief of my worries: this was, the face of Leah on the ferret mutt looming down on me.

I started to sweat. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I thought I saw Lucian darting in between the ferrets, egging them on, asking them to rip, to tear, to make me suffer…

I screamed again. Talon was sitting beside me, knife drawn. He leaned down close to me. "Hello, Galla," he whispered. This was not Lucian's voice. This was Talon. "You know how Mother died?"

I screamed again and tried to scoot away, only succeeding in opening my leg wound.

Talon tutted, moving fast as a snake back to my side. Raising a knife that had not been there a moment before, he pressed it to my throat. "I _asked_, do you know how Mother died?"

I lay back, exhausted. Lips barely moving, making almost no sound, I whispered back to him, "She died of black lung."

Talon shook his head. "No, sweetheart," he crooned, releasing the knife from my throat. _"I killed her."_

"N-no!"

"_Yes."_

"Why, Talon, why?" I moaned. "She was your mother …"

"She was a fool." He smirked. "Enjoy the ferrets, my love." He vanished.

I began to whimper again. I drew a long, rasping breath, and let out a sigh of relief as I saw a figure, clothed in long, white robes, at the far edge of the trees. "Mother."

She smiled at me, but there was no love in her smile. "Galla," she crooned, "why did you fail me? I sent you into these Games to prove your worth, but you died…Galla, Galla, Galla."

I stared, stunned, as the closest ferret stepped on my chest. "Mother, Mother, save me."

"No, dear. You need to die. You let your family down. You let _me _down."

"Take me back to Leah," I moaned. "Take me back to Sally and Father and Talon. I need to say sorry…"

"Sorry that you failed them?" Mother tutted. "No. They care not. They voted for you, you know. Talon is happy you are dying…he wants to live without fights. Sally wishes you had not been her stepdaughter; she liked Talon, but never you. Lucas wants nothing to do with the daughter that let him down. And Leah…"

"Leah?" I asked, my breath catching.

"She will be chosen for the Games at her first Reaping, to show that _she_ is worthy, even if you are not." Mother's lip curled. "She will bring glory to all of District 12."

"No!"

Mother vanished. The ferrets grew closer. I began to bleed again, all over the ground. "NO!" I screeched in pain and fear. "NOO! MOTHER, MOTHER SAVE ME!"

Mother reappeared next to me. "Talon did kill me, you know," she whispered. "He is worthy, he did not have to enter the Games to prove it."

The ferrets grabbed my other arm and my legs, biting into them. I let out a screech of pain.

"MOTHER!"

Then the world went black. This time, I did not pass out, but I truly passed on.

Or did I? I thought the afterlife was supposed to be peaceful.

Right?


	54. Capitol Fool

_Happy Saturday, ladies and gents! (Or whatever day it happens to be for you). We're trying to get back on a schedule so thanks for staying with us! Now, without a further ado, the lovely Admire!_

* * *

_**Admire Blanchard of District 1**_

_**Day 3 of the Arena**_

_**The Attack, Part Three**_

_**By Crazy-ForeverxXx**_

* * *

_The two worst strategic mistakes to make are acting prematurely and letting an opportunity slip; to avoid this, the warrior treats each situation as if it were unique and never resorts to formulae, recipes or other people's opinions._

Paulo Coelho

"I always knew you were sexist." I comment and Canicus huffs in annoyance.

We're slathered in dried mud from crawling under barbed wire at the beginning of the games, wet mud from trekking through damp woodlands, I have a cut lip that still throbs, my back sends jolts of pain shooting down my legs as I walk and I'm soaked to the skin because it hasn't stopped raining for _three _days.

I'm not a happy camper.

"I mean if you can somehow resist me you must like the opposite sex. Clearly you favour boys because you let Jet lead the hunt when we all know I'm far more capable. Do you have a man crush Canicus?" I pout and don't miss Roulla from the corner of my eye who flinches slightly.

"Admire you've been non-stop complaining for the last six hours!"

"Well if I was leader they'd be nothing to complain about because we'd be killing someone!" I snap. "Why the _hell _did you let Jet lead the hunt?" I hiss, gripping the cold knife stuffed in my pocket harder in my hand.

Canicus ignores me, flexing his jaw.

I grin maliciously. "You know being silent is the most obvious sign of-"

"Shut up!" Sade snaps. "I'm sick of your constant griping."

"Sick to death?" I cock an eyebrow and she snarls.

"I could take you out in one punch."

I laugh loudly, the sound seeming to last forever in the relative silence around us. There is no sign of life in this arena since Jet killed the District 5 boy after the Bloodbath. We haven't encountered one single soul in this wasteland. It's pathetic. We're trained killers and we have no one to kill. Of course, if I was leader half of the tributes would be already dead. As it happens I'll just have to make do reminiscing that beautiful moment when Con Rossencourte ceased to breathe underneath my more than capable hands. The annoyance gone from my life forever.

"Okay." Canicus brings us to a halt on the driest patch of dirt he can find. "I think our best course of action is-"

"Whatever you say is the worst." I smile charmingly and he grits his teeth.

"As I was _saying , _I think our best option is to-"

"Wander around these trees for eternity?"

"Shut the fuck up, Admire." Canicus snaps, finally losing his temper.

"Newsflash, Canicus!" I snarl. "We've been walking for days doing _nothing! _If I wanted to go on long hikes and think about nature I'd go to District 7, not the Hunger Games." I sneer at him as my blood starts to boil.

"Please don't argue." Jet says, eerily calm despite the manic in those dark eyes. "Rebecca finds it irritating and much prefers to be the antagonist herself."

The four of us turn to look at him, and I open my mouth to say something bitingly cruel about this Rebecca who doesn't exist before thinking better of it.

"What does Rebecca suggest we do?" I say sweetly and Sade shakes her head.

"Kill people." He smirks icily.

"Ooh I like Rebecca!" I laugh. "Why don't we listen to Rebecca and Jet, Canicus? They clearly know what they're doing!"

Jet may be a lunatic, but he's certainly a useful one.

"I'm the leader of the Careers, Admire, Ava made me."

"Your stuffy old mentor can't remember anything beyond what she's having for dinner." I sneer derisively. "We all know I can actually boss people around and they listen to me." I eye him witheringly.

"You think you're so intimidating yet you can't scare a mouse, never mind another tribute! You cover up scars like they're something bad but if you were smarter you'd know they make you look tough. You didn't even want to be our leader, you don't know how to lead, we could have killed at least two more people if everyone took my advice. You-"

"Can we please stop arguing?" Roulla sighs and puts a hand to her forehead with a grimace.

"I'm sorry are we giving you a headache?" I coo and she stares at me with undistinguished emotion in those probing eyes.

"This isn't helping anyone." She continues. "We're going to fall out and then where will we be?"

"Well I'll be sat atop a tribute with my knife in their neck." I smile. "And Canicus will be _dead._"

"Everyone will be dead!" Jet snarls, riled up and swinging his handmade weapon back and forth. I and Canicus both ignore him, too caught up in our own feud. Honestly he should know better than to pick a fight with me.

"Don't kid yourself, Admire." He snorts.

"Acting like a pig won't get you sponsors, Canicus." I fire back without a pause.

"What's your excuse?"

"Shut up." I mutter. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know that you- are you _crying?_" Canicus asks incredulously and I sniff, dragging my sleeve across my eyes and wiping the droplets away.

"Admire don't get upset." Roulla says warily, patting my shoulder cautiously.

"Why not? I have a good reason to!" I say shrilly, jerking away from her touch. She frowns concerned and I hide my glee.

"God you're pathetic. You go on a spiel about me..." My partner shakes his head.

"It's not all about you Canicus!" I shriek and my stomach lurches.

"What is this about then?"

"I can't tell you." I gulp, collapsing onto the sodden forest floor.

"Is this about-"

"Nobody knows about this." I snap, teeth chattering.

"Admire, calm down." Roulla soothes.

"Yeah we wouldn't want you flaking out on us." Sade mutters but I ignore her. I can insult her back ten times back later but not now.

"For Christ's sake, Mira, stop being melodramatic, we're wasting time." Canicus snaps but I ignore him, huddling in on myself as I bite my lip to stop responding to that annoying nickname.

I squeeze my stomach with my arms to stop it from throbbing, resting my chin atop my knees and staring glassily at the barren landscape around us. Raindrops slip down from my hairline into my eyes, only adding to the effect of tears rolling down my cheeks.

"You can tell us Admire." Roulla looks at me concerned, bending down to my level and staring at me intently.

I shake my head.

"Believe me you don't want to know." I say bitterly, a droplet falling from my nose onto my cut lip.

Salty, and I lick it away as Canicus sighs irritably and Roulla puts a hand over mine.

"I'm being stupid anyway." I swallow thickly.

"Yeah you are." Canicus grumbles.

"If something's bothering you maybe we can help." Roulla, prudish caring mother-hen Roulla won't let it go and I stare at her miserably.

"Are you deaf? She doesn't want Nurse Roulla." Sade grumbles and I sniff, head buried under my coat to disguise the smirk.

"No Roulla's right. I need to get this off my chest-" Unable to let myself, I let out a bark of laughter and they stare at me bemused.

"Sorry. I- It's not even funny." I sober quickly, biting my bruised lip so it tingles and threatens to start bleeding again. "I guess I have to laugh really."

"Just tell us already." Sade says impatiently,

"Fine." I snap angrily, and thunder rumbles above us. "If you really want to know a man in the Capitol _raped _me okay? HE RAPED ME!" My throat throbs as I scream hysterically.

I count three seconds of silence before Jet laughs manically, howling as he clutches his stomach.

"That's what you get whore!" He spits with delight, eyes practically cart wheeling as he stares at me.

"Shut up, psycho." Sade mutters under her breath."That's... really bad." She clears her throat before visibly shaking herself and tightening her pony tail.

"It's barbaric." Roulla says horrified. Her cheeks flush with anger. "Nobody should ever do that to a person, and especially not to A-Admire." She finishes with a stutter that no one else notices. I cock my head inquisitively before letting out a hiccup.

Canicus narrows his eyes with hooded suspicion.

"Why would I lie about something l-like this Canicus?" I hate the practiced pathetic whine in my voice. "I have bruises look!"

I roll up my sleeves with shaky, fumbling fingers. The scratches are almost faded but the belt bruise is a mottled yellow.

"Huh." Canicus inspects it closely. "That morning-"

I nod heavily without words, lips pursed tightly to stop my laughter. Their faces are so serious! So... concerned. Who would have thought it, Careers with actual human feelings?

Roulla looks downright furious. "Who?"

"What?" I squeak as she grips my arm.

"Who did this to you?" She repeats, voice steely.

"I think his name was..." I let out a breathy laugh of hysteria. "Jovilious. I think. Something... I thought he looked nice." I nod, biting my lip. "Jovilious Efrem I'm sure of it. I thought he wanted to sponsor me!"

I stare at Roulla stricken and she nods tightly.

"Did you enjoy it?" Jet leers at me, bringing his hand up to my face, knocking Roulla back onto the floor. I watch him warily before he tosses my head back and forth. "Did he do this? Did he wrap his hands around your pretty little neck and squeeze? Did he bend your arm back so much it broke?"

"No, my arms not broken." I say carefully, eyes half shut as I stare at him intently. Unresisting to his foolery.

My eyes water slightly as he grips my neck, and I wriggle to trace the biggest vein on his wrist with the tip of my knife.

"Jet, stop it." Roulla says sharply and Sade nods firmly, backing her up.

"Is that what you told him?" His sharp teeth are inches from my face and I resist the urge to spit. If I act helpless now, when he does inevitably try to kill me he won't be expecting my excellent prowess during battle.

"Yes." I say coldly.

He chuckles. "And did he stop?"

"No. But you will." I say confidently. Behind him Sade arches an eyebrow in disbelief.

"What makes you so sure girlie?" He musses my hair, tugs out a clump and I resist the urge to shriek at him.

"Because if you kill me now who else will you talk to? Rebecca?"

Jet blinks slowly and stares down at his hand gripping my hair, "You're right bitch." He lets me go and I take a deep breath, furiously patting down my hair.

"Are you okay Admire?" Roulla asks tentatively.

"What do you think?" I huff to disguise the trembling of my limbs. He pulled part of my _hair _out. I'll have to rearrange my whole hairstyle to cover the _bald _patch. I shudder.

"Who did you get the knife off?" Canicus suddenly accuses.

"Do we have to keep talking about this? I almost suffered another attack then at the hands of Jet _thank you very much for stepping in._" I say tiredly, glaring at him. Such gallant behavior.

"Canicus, I can tell by the look in your eye you don't believe me...but imagine if it was Serafina."

He flinches and looks like he's going to puke.

"Don't." He says, voice dark. "Don't even Admire."

"Exactly." I say wearily and stand up. "But-" I clear my throat and nod, chin jutting in the air. "I think the whole experience has just made me stronger you know?"

I mean my acting skills are superb, my restraint in attacking Canicus physically is coming along marvelously, and anyone with common sense knows to go along with whatever the lunatic says.

I flex my fingers, stroke the golden hilt of my knife and force a small smile on my face.

"I'm sorry I've been in such a sour mood, Canicus."

Ugh. My stomach gurgles unappealing at the barefaced lie.

"I just guess I've been bottling up all this...shame and, and embarrassment and...I'm – sorry." I stumble over the last word and gag queasily.

"It's...fine." Canicus says, clearly confused by the sudden shift of my behavior.

"Although I'll still be a better leader." I add and he rolls his eyes. Best to not be overly suspicious and lie through my teeth about _everything._

It's not just the two of us acting differently though, the whole group dynamic as a whole has changed.

Roulla looks furious, like she'll kill whoever did this to me as soon as she sees him. Like a lioness protecting one of her young. Sade looks like she's having an internal battle with her feelings, her face pale and eyebrows drawn together as she stares at me with...pity perhaps? Mutual understanding? Her eyes are now gleaned with melting frost rather than ice. Her District partner Jet is more out of it than ever, muttering under his breath to his (and probably mine by extension now) friends.

Canicus is clearly imagining his sister being in my place, lip twisted with horror and rage at the imagined assailant.

Two things happen in tandem: the raindrops that hit the back of my neck stop and a silver parachute drifts hazily to the group of us.

"The rain's finally stopped." Sade says with a sigh of happiness, trying to absorb the sliver of sunlight that appears through the clouds in the sky.

I ignore her and lunge for the parachute, opening it with delicate but quick fingers.

"What is it?"

"A small bottle of water and a chocolate bar." I try and fail to keep the smugness from my voice. "Oh thank you everyone!" I add, blinking teary eyes before snapping a piece of chocolate from the bar and having a piece.

I make a sound of content and stuff the rest in my pocket.

"I'd offer you some Sade but you might get it stuck in your hair." I smirk remembering the District 10 girl throwing the stuff at her during training, and Sade glowers.

"I guess now is as good a time as ever to go hunting." Canicus says hastily, clearly eager to avoid further arguing. It won't last. "Why don't we split up? Admire and Sade-"

"I'll go with her." Roulla interrupts.

"Okay...Admire and Roulla you go get some wood for a fire, Jet and Sade come with me and we'll try to find some food. We'll meet in an hour back here okay? Don't go too far." Canicus eyes me pointedly and I smile.

His longsuffering expression melts into confusion and he nods.

Me and Roulla set off into the damp forest. Raindrops drip and roll off the sparse leaves on the deadened trees, and underfoot the ground is treacherous, our feet slipping into dark pockets of mud.

Mist swirls around us, tendrils weaving around our bodies and making me blink fuzzily, unsure if it's real or my vision blurring.

"I've gone off men now." I lie casually, voice a whisper in the silence. The tips of my ears tingle with cold.

"Yes." Roulla's jaw clenches. "I can see why." She picks her way delicately through some roots that snag on our boots.

"Roulla?" I ask and she turns to look at me.

"Yes?" Her eyes are blazing fiercely with feelings.

I lean forward, my breath fanning across her face. "You have a raindrop-"

I wipe the raindrop off her forehead with my thumb and she flinches, a flush rising on her cheeks.

"Thanks." She says gruffly before carrying on ahead in silence.

We walk for a few minutes we find a scattering of twigs that look suitable.

"We should get the ones at the bottom that are drier." I murmur and kneel on the ground, digging into the soil to get the furthest sticks.

Roulla observes me intently. "Get the smaller ones so we can carry more."

"Great idea Roulla." I flatter and a quick smile appears on her lips. "Here." I pass her a bundle and cock my head.

"Did you hear something?"

"No." She shrugs.

"Huh. I'm sure I heard-" I squint at the blurred horizon, a skitter of apprehension running down my spine and at the same time, the rain comes down harder than before.

I fling my sticks to the floor and Roulla looks at me confused as I tug her to the ground.

With a snarl that reverberates in every bone in my body a huge mutt flings itself at us.

Huge, with a skulking body and beady eyes. Patchwork fur of different shades of brown. Quivering jaws and fangs dripping with saliva. A huge tail that whips back and forth sharply. Razor sharp claws as thick as bones and just as long, filed into wicked points. A creature once considered cute but now just plain ugly. Its nose twitches as it scuttles around us, and I have a unnerving feeling that its signaling to others.

"What is it?" Roulla gasps, scrambling to her feet and ducking as another one pounces out from the curtain of fog.

"A ferret." I remember distantly, mind already roving over practiced techniques and moves.

"Like the District 8-" Roulla spins and slashes the creature in front of her. "Boy's?"

"Yes." I manage to say before all hell breaks loose.

At least five bound into the vicinity, and I immediately bend backwards and jump over the tail of one, whirling around and hacking viciously at its flesh.

I grunt and twist to land my boot on the chest of a rising mutt, flinging my knife through its skull with perfect accuracy. I tug it out as it crumples and duck as another quickly replaces the slain, hissing hatefully. I scurry backwards, hitting a tree and sinking as its claws slam into the bark where my head was seconds earlier. I roll sideways, stomach heaving before I jump up. Fighting the urge to vomit and collapse in pain I grit my teeth and work through it.

The rain makes it hard to see, the mutts now dark shapes wavering around in front of me. I can't hear anything above my own breath rattling in my chest and the screeching of the mutts, the roar of thunder clashing above.

I'm knocked sideways winded and cry out as those sharp teeth sink into my arm. Hissing with anger I manically stab the mutt's neck, cut it off I should cut it off-

My knife hacks through the sinews of flesh and meets bone. The mutt hisses once, tongue lolling before its head rolls off. It rolls off into the abyss around me, and I hear a yelp from somewhere nearby amidst the dying groans and paws sticking in the mud.

I stay still, straining to hear past the battle and rain to-

I whip around and am almost thrown off my feet. I stagger backwards as three more mutts slither up. Like snakes, unwinding and twisting each way with those heavy tails mutated to cause so much more harm. Not to mention the deadly claws attached to each foot and the rows of sharp teeth.

Their eyes glitter menacingly as they approach, bounding and squealing at the top of their lungs in anticipation. Okay...

As predicted the middle mutt strikes first, but I've already thrown my knife into its trachea. It huffs for breath before spasming, and pouring blood from the mouth crashing down to the floor. The mutt on either side both lunge at the same time and when they knock me to the ground I'm already ready.

Heart pounding against my ribcage as one traps me between its paws and the other raises its claw to slash my throat I kick my leg up into the underbelly of the one holding me. It squeals and when the one above me goes in for the kill I roll over to the side and drive my knife into its jaw, jabbing my finger into one of those beady eyes. It goes wild, flinging me backwards and stomping around with high-pitched keens of distress. My knife is flung from my hand and I gasp for breath, hands slick with mud and blood as I crawl through the unknown in the general direction of the angry mutt and my _knife._

I'm cut off from everything; all that exists is this brutal game of hide and seek between mutts and I. I can't see beyond two feet in every direction, I don't know if Roulla's still around or dead, I can't hear anything above the clashing thunder and lightning that echoes down to my very bones.

The cannon blast makes me jump, all the air falling from my lungs in shock. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle uncomfortably. Where did that cannon sound? Was it near or far away? Who was it? Maybe it's someone in the Careers...

_Please be Canicus, please be Canicus._

I scrabble forwards, eyes trained on the floor ahead of me trying to distinguish the markings of paw tracks and boot marks. Blades of grass stick to my palms and the chains around my neck dangle back and forth against my chest as I try to ignore the stinging pain in my arm from the bite and the jolt of pain in my stomach as I keep walking. I grit my teeth, it's like my stomach is _burning. _I resist the urge to scratch at my skin, bury under it and rip out the ulcer that throbs. Oh god what if it erupts and I'm still in the Games and can't get the treatment? What happens then? I can't _die. _It's just...unthinkable.

The pain leaves as fast as it came and I suck in a deep breath of relief, only now aware of how rapid and shallow my breathing had become. The pinching in my chest evaporates and I narrow my eyes furious at myself for focusing on other things.

I look around in frustration, rearing backwards when I hear a thud and dying squeal near to my left.

My hands squelch in the thick mud and I shudder with disgust, my drenched clothes sticking to my cold limbs as rain continues to fall. My fingernails are crusted with soil and when I nearly crawl head first into a tree I cling to it and try to gather my bearings, blinking rapidly and taking as slow and deep breathes as possible to avoid the mutt's super-hearing from finding me. They can probably smell me but maybe the rain and mud is masking that? I scratch the drying blood on my cheek, and try to pinpoint the general area where my knife now lays.

I sink back to the floor and slink through the trees, wincing as the twigs snap underneath my palms. Well I know I'm in the right area now I just-

My head collides into another and I groan at the sharp jolt of pain. The other person swears and I roll back on my haunches to examine the tribute.

I glower at him, recognizable all too well even through the pouring rainstorm. "Of all the luck."

"And here I was hoping it was your cannon." He sneers as he rubs his forehead.

"Likewise." I smile poisonously.

Canicus's hair is plastered to his forehead where a large lump is forming. His nose is bloodied and he carries his home-made stake in his right hand, while in his left-

"Hey that's my knife!" I hiss and tackle him backwards, my sharp broken nails digging into the soft flesh of his wrist to take the knife from his hand.

"Get off me, I'll give it to you, Mira, for Christ's sake-"

He reluctantly hands me my knife and I wipe the blood off with my shirt.

"Have you heard any of the mutts nearby?"

I shake my head negative. "I can't even see." I complain. "I mean it's raining _again _and it's only stopped for what? Half an hour? It's ridiculous and I-"

"Admire please. Shut. Up. Just follow me-"

"Ha. I'm not following _you _I was doing perfectly fine before you turned up-"

"Well I have your knife so clearly something went wrong."

"The absence of mutts, Canicus, is because I've killed them."

We continue to bicker under our breath as we crawl side by side through the forest.

"God, are you two still arguing?" Sade complains nearby making us jump, voice nasally and instantly sending pangs of irritation through me.

"Where are you?" Canicus calls, twisting to stare in each direction, and I pat thin air stupidly.

"Oh." I make a sound of surprise as my hands come into contact with something. I brush them back in the direction. "Who's this?" I caress smooth hair smirking, running it through to my fingertips.

"Me." Jet's creepy voice drifts to me and I laugh nervously, making sure he can feel the knife blade gently brushing his hair alongside my fingers.

"The mist is letting up." Roulla's calm voice drifts to my ears. "A few minutes and we'll be able to see again."

"Hallelujah!" Sade says and I laugh while rapidly retreating from Jet.

Unwilling to get slathered in yet more mud and who knows what else, I promptly sit and watch the rolls of fog dissipate into thin air. I blink, slightly disoriented. I'm sitting in a patch of unfamiliar forest. Jet is getting to his feet a few meters to my left. Roulla and Sade are about ten yards opposite and Canicus is in the middle.

We all look worse for wear but our weapons are brutally damaged and dripping blood. Even Sade's pathetic lump of wood has a dent molded into the shape of a mutts skull.

"I wonder who the cannon was for?" Sade asks, wrinkling her nose at the foul smell that arises in the air.

"Get ready for round two!" Jet laughs with ecstasy and I turn around to stare head first at a furious ferret.

I practically steamroll backwards, dodging the blows it inflicts. I taunt it amusingly, bored now with the fighting. I'd rather be killing competitor's not furry pets. As soon as the thought runs through my head the ferret gets irritated and whips its tail at me. Are these mutts mindreaders?

I stumble over its tail and end up barred against a tree. Before it can move I slit its throat.

I gag as it falls against me, a river of blood cascading down onto my face, into my mouth- I shove the furry carcass away and clutch my knife with reverence. Thank God I have the knowledge to manipulate the Capitol. Thank God I'm so talented. I stroke it lovingly and gag, spitting out blood and wincing at the large rip one of the claws left down my left arm. Bloody scratches that sting and start to bleed.

Roulla and Canicus are brutally finishing off the final mutt, and Jet is peering down at a something on the ground. Sade prowls over to him and raises her piece of wood.

"No, no we should give it a long death." Jet says gleefully. "It will be so much more fun."

"But time consuming." Sade whacks the baby mutt on its forehead. If looks could kill, Sade would be hung drawn and quartered right now by the intensity of Jet's glare.

"That was _my _mutt."

"I'm sorry." Sade rolls her eyes. "I'll order the Gamemakers to bring another shall I?"

"Yes." He bares his teeth at her threateningly and she laughs nervously, playing with her blood-soaked hair and purposefully ignoring him. I dab at my bloodied arm and laugh.

"You know this was a family right? Mummy Ferret and Daddy Ferret and baby ferret." I look at the last mutts. "Very clever."

Those Gamemakers, preying on homesick thoughts about family and friends...Pity it won't work on me, all I have is a nagging Mother and ignorant Father and a boring brother barely old enough to talk.

"I wouldn't mind killing families." Jet offers and I smile, biting back a comment sure to rile him. Instead I join Roulla in picking up the sticks we gathered for wood that seems like years ago.

"Think we can eat the meat off these?" I kick a dead mutt.

It's almost comical, the face in death. Tongue lolling, eyes bloated wide like it can't believe it lost. Like all the pathetic tributes in the bloodbath.

"I'm not sure, you're bleeding." Roulla says and points to the scratches on my arm.

"So I am. Want to kiss it better?" I tease with a whisper and she stares at me, two spots of pink appearing on her cheeks.

"There's another parachute." Roulla swiftly changes subjects, pointing to the familiar sight. "It has a 1 on it again." She frowns.

In fact, everyone's frowning as I smugly saunter forward to open the parachute and examine the bandage I've obtained.

"Thank you!" I carol at the sky, blowing all my unseen admirers a kiss.

The all too visible admirer beside me touches my shoulder. "Do you want me to apply it for you?"

"That would be _lovely._" I purr. "I mean, I don't want a _male_ to do it." I shudder with disgust and she nods with empathy.

I perch on a rock while she dribbles water on the scratches. I wince and she hastily apologizes. I ignore her, watching Sade and Canicus pick up some more wood and question whether it would be safe to eat mutt meat. Sade's limping, the wound in her thigh from the arrow has reopened and she shoots an envious look at my clean proper bandage as she walks past. Her hair is covered with blood as is everyone's, and her eye is starting to become swollen. Canicus's nose has started bleeding again and he's tipping his head back to stem the bleeding. You're not supposed to do that.

Jet's staring thoughtfully at the dead baby ferret corpse eluding an aura of pure insanity. His clothes are ripped and blood stained and his fingers cling to his weapons possessively. He has a wound on his neck that looks nasty but he seems unaffected. He would.

"There." Roulla finishes tying the bandage and smiles at me despite the bruises on her skin and bitten ear. I flex my arm. "How is it?"

"Perfect. Thanks." I bat my lashes and dimple and she smiles, opening her mouth before thinking better of it. Shaking her head she bumbles off to the others.

She's attracted to me.

I know all the signs. The blushing, the need to be alone with me, the fierce look in her eyes at my tale, her mothering over me. It's cute. Reassuring that even in this arena I can attract both girls and boys. Both teams. One tribute is in itself a miracle, but two and from the same District as well is unheard of.

I can't say it's surprising. I know many of the girls back home used to roam their eyes over me in jealously. Whatever they knew I knew differently, and if I added an extra swaggerin my step, well it easily entertained everyone who was watching. I don't care if it's a girl or a boy who I tease and play games with, it always ends with the same result anyway; the victim ensnared in my web becoming head over heels in love with me.

Obsessive, lust-filled, compelled to hang around me even after I've grown bored and trapped another.

Now Roulla, if I play with her I have nothing to lose and lots to gain. She becomes unfocused when I play with my hair, pout my lips and flutter my eyelashes, and in that second the extra training point fades away in her oblivion. She already wants to protect me, and if I did something as outrageous as to kiss her... well, then she'd truly preserve her life over mine.

But, maybe I'm over thinking this girl. Perhaps Roulla is struggling with her blatant sexuality and would fend off my advances with a knife lodged in my back.

Careful, I shall have to be extremely careful.

Never underestimate a fellow Career. I know better than anyone how ruthless they can be. Perhaps Roulla is right now only looking at my swaying hips to make me think she's thinking about kissing me.

I smile and rejoin my fellow Careers, biting into my chocolate because I have some and they don't. Sade bickers about my bandage, Roulla quietens her and asks a silent Jet how he is. Canicus makes plans to start a fire and eat, and I?

I make plans to ensure my victory.


	55. Write My Name in Stars

_Depending on how things are moving, there will be an update either on Thursday or Saturday._

_Also, last chapter, to avoid confusion, the cannon heard by Admire was that of Galla, the attacks occurring simultaneously. Thanks for the reviews and continued support, guys, I don't feel we say that enough! Let's finish this banter and get to the chapter now._

_P.S. This chapter was meant to be called "Worse Ways To Be Remembered, Write My Name in Stars" but it was way too long._

* * *

**Londyn Aureole of District 6**

**Day 3 -Night**

**By 1Styx and Stones1**

* * *

_"I admire addicts. In a world where everybody is waiting for some blind, random disaster or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road. He's taken some control over his ultimate fate, and his addiction keeps the cause of his death from being a total surprise."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, Choke_

* * *

In the same way that the pills I stole from Gran made me forget, the withdrawal makes me remember.

And not just important stuff or bad stuff, but weird stuff like the taste of mashed yams and the smell of whatever it was Gran used to scent her sheets with. The pounding of my head ache follows the tempo of an unhappy song my mother used to play on the piano. The prickle of chills on my arms brings me back to the time I had a fever so high that I was convinced for two straight days that the ceiling would fall on me if I didn't exercise all the strength of my nine-year-old arms and hold it aloft.

I've gone through withdrawal before. The first time was when Daddy locked away every bit of my secret stash in a trunk after I tried injecting myself twice for the first time and accidentally fell down the stairs afterwards.

I made it four days. Then Daddy worked late and I trawled the streets for an unsavory sober enough to teach me how to pick a lock.

That was how I met Tanner. He unlocked the trunk for me, and I repaid him in multi-colored waxy pills. I ended up accidentally making out with him, and he's had the hots for me ever since.

The second time it'd been I who enforced the strict no-injection policy on myself, frightened by the way my fingers had begun to falter on the piano keys, shaking and not doing as directed, if I did not inject on a tri-hourly basis.

I lasted only two days and broke down sobbing deliriously in the middle of history class. My reputation was firmly sealed as a druggy after that, as absolutely no one could be wholly convinced that my sudden hysterics had been brought on by a particularly dry lecture about the beginnings of Panem.

This time, I have suffered through three days without a needle in the vein snaking through the crease of my elbow. I suppose this could be considered an achievement, but at the moment I'm having a very difficult time keeping my thoughts anchored in the present day.

I dig my fingers around a coil of barbed wire as the sense of vertigo washes over me once more like a powerful riptide, rushing at my ears and simultaneously heightening and blurring my senses.

After a few weightless, terrifying seconds, the sharp dig of metal in the pads of my fingertips registers. I absent-mindedly put the bloodied digits in my mouth, tasting rusty copper and dirt, and try to breathe.

* * *

_"Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti-"_

_"But, Gran, this is _boring_-"_

_A wrong note plunks. A childish cry of protest as lacquer-coated talons rap briskly at dimpled knuckles._

_"Wrong. Do it again. Do Re Mi Fa So-"_

* * *

Night has welled, dark and runny. I feel it in the touch of cold in the air. The hair clinging to the back of my neck is still wet with rain and sweat and clotted blood. It sticks to my skin, making it prickle and sting hot and cold in turns.

For something to do, I shuffle around in the many pockets of my militaristic ensemble, and retrieve my comb. I break three of the plastic teeth while attempting to run my token through the blood-clotted snarls of my hair, which has begun to resemble steel wool in its consistency.

I then braid back the choppy, chin-length strands as I wait with disinterest for the Capitol anthem to chime and the names of the dead to be proclaimed.

Apparently, along with the announcement of each name, the deceased tribute's photo is emblazoned across the dusky sky arching above us. Of this I am vaguely envious, wondering if there are stars in the sky above us, and whether they blaze through the projections of dead faces.

Something about the idea appeals to me, in the same way that the stories Gran used to tell did. Ancient heroes of ancient civilizations did not die, but lived through the songs sung of their heroism, their images charted in the sky for eternity.

I think of Edrick, my district partner, of the unkind laughter that drowned out the sound of his footsteps as he moved closer and closer to his end. I remember the simultaneous scrape of our forks against porcelain as we ate our meals in the Capitol in silence, our one and only real conversation on that first night in the Capitol where he called B.S. on my whole facade.

I remember that crowd, that same crowd that sniffled and boo-hooed so hypocritically for me, and their unkind laughter, the thunder of hands voicing their malicious approval as their near-silent victim stumped to the stage. I wonder if they are laughing now, exchanging celebratory bro-fists at the funny little trick they've played on their favorite victim.

I decide I could probably win the Games with qualms if my fellow tributes were the people to whom those jeering voices and clapping hands belong. I could probably even smile about it afterwards.

I can't help but wonder if he was smiling under his disgusting beard thing when his features played across the inky canvas of the night sky.

I think about heroes of old, the way they were charted by stars in the sky, forever more infinite than printed words on the dusty pages of a tome of impersonal history, and I think there are worse ways to be remembered.

And once more my head bobs beneath the surface of the ever-rising floodwaters of my panic, silence roaring in my ears.

* * *

_A hand, pudgy knuckles and oddly clammy, on the crook of my arm._

_"Londyn, what are these- these markings?"_

_"Freckles, Daddy."_

_A beat. A sigh, wistful and fond and far away. "Oh. Yes, of course. Your mother- she always freckled in the summer. Drove her crazy-"_

* * *

The anthem breaks through the silence of my over-whelming, incoherent thoughts. I start, fingers clenching around wire and more blood welling.

I put my fingers in my mouth and listen, limbs quivering as my adrenaline fluctuates.

Just two names tonight.

Juniper Harris.

Galla Cinders.

I don't know who they are, and that makes it easier. It makes it a little sad, too, but I can fight that part off.

I wonder if they, too, were attacked by a mutt, whether that was what reduced them to names in the silence and an unseen faces in the sky. It's an odd thought, but my name might have shortly followed theirs, had I not somehow garnered the favor of the Head Gamemaker herself, Phoenix.

My fingers stray from my tattered braid to my pocket, seeking out smooth metal and the roughly hewn engraving of a knife's hilt. The blade is long, slightly warm from maintained contact with my body, and I draw it forth with something like reverence.

The knife is beautiful, deceptively so, the hilt swirled with roses and faceted gems. It sits lightly in my hand, perfectly weighted. I can almost imagine the whistling as it slices through the air, the quivering thud as it sinks into its target.

The blood would color the roses appropriately, I am certain.

The knife's twin sits heavily in my pocket, its shining blade sheathed in the coils of a piece of thick parchment. I draw out the paper, too, and run my shivering fingers, then my cold lips, across the raised markings that mar its surface, mentally reciting the words these dots, a system known as Braille, represent:

_My kind of girl Londyn, pulling the wings off butterflies. - Phoenix_

The smell of the parchment is musty. It reminds me of tall bookshelves and wall after wall of old books with crippled, age-worn spines and tattered pages whose creases tell just as many tales as do the printed words they bear.

My eyelids flutter as I fight back another feverish flashback - _hands over hands, withered over childish, tracing dots on pages and slowly reciting 'A, B, C'_ - but I come to abruptly as a finger accidentally slides down the slippery-sharp surface of the knife in my hand.

It's so razor-sharp that it takes nearly a full three seconds for the pain to register, and when it does it is biting.

I return my fingers to my mouth and the parchment to my pocket, but I leave the flowered dagger resting lightly in my lap, just in case.

For once, the feelings of suspicion and paranoia that seize at the back of my neck are not merely a symptom of whatever crushed-up pill I've snorted earlier that day. This is the Hunger Games, and it is certainly unwise to let my guard down.

For example, the events of earlier today that I speculate cost Galla Cinders of District Twelve her life:

* * *

_It is the morning of day three, and since the bloodbath, the most perilous event that's befallen me is when I accidentally fell into a stream last night and cut my right, unpierced eyebrow open on a pointy rock, slimy with algae, roughly the size of my fist._

_There is, of course, the nearly constant threat of unfortunately placed trees. If I somehow manage to avoid running full-on into the tree, I am almost certainly guaranteed to either trip over its roots or be smacked in the face by one of its spiny branches._

_All the same, I am almost taken aback by how well I've fared so far. I received manageable injuries in the bloodbath, and was much pretty much escorted from the chaos by the oddly courteous Sean Armani._

_Yes, _that_ Sean Armani, who apparently does not share his sister's infamous nature, nor seem particularly liable to break out in a rage and begin kicking puppies/orphans/innocent blind girls, not even when said innocent blind girl accidentally broke character long enough to haul off and punch him in the face._

_Not only did he restrain himself from immediately slaughtering me, he actually_ helped_ me, guiding me through the cacophonous noise and the strategically placed barbed wire and even going so far as to give me a pep talk before he dashed off like some sort of White Knight in a storybook, albeit minus a horse and sporting what is no doubt quite a dashing black eye._

_Even my near-drowning had its benefits, as it provided me with both a source of hopefully fresh water and a make-shift weapon - the sharp rock that had effectively pierced my previously untouched eyebrow._

_I am tending to this particular wound - one of the many which dot my face as a result of Sean's chivalry, which consisted of throwing me face-first into barbed wire - when I hear the quiet sound._

_It is as near-silent as a dried leaf falling to the forest floor, but I take no chances. In an instant, I am on my feet, hurling the algae-covered rock at the source of sound with every bit of taut adrenaline in my frame._

_A sound signals that my weapon has hit its still-airborne intended target. My fists fly up, ready to defend myself further, before another noise registers - that of solid hitting metallic solid._

_After a moment of tense silence, I hesitantly retrieve both my rock and the object I knocked out of the air._

_It is tangled in fabric and string. A parachute. Suddenly my fingers refuse to work properly as I fumble anxiously and finally retrieve the contents of the delivery._

_I weigh the knives in my hand reverently. In the arena, for me, this is everything. I uncoil the parchment from around the tip of the sleek second blade. It takes me several minutes, as it's been years since I've read anything in Braille, but eventually I decipher the message._

My king of girl Londyn, pulling the wings off butterflies. - Phoenix

_My fingertips, stinging with millions of tiny cuts on each beat of my pulse, tingle as they linger over the last word of the message inscribed in Braille._

_Phoenix._

_The _Head Gamemaker_._

_I don't dare to breathe._

_My stunt with the butterflies was the work of a desperate, screwed-up girl whose own facade of frailty was driving her mad._

_My own desire to be remembered for something by someone, anyone, was the force that drove my arm and my aim in the training arena when I unleashed the jarful of butterflies, then mercilessly and efficiently picked each and every one out of them out of the air with a handful of stiletto throwing knives, pinning them to the walls like pieces of artwork, like paper memos on a bulletin board._

_After the last fragile bit of life had fallen to the floor, the knife skewered through its papery wings clanging solemnly, I'd almost choked on the silence. Then somebody chuckled, low and musical and amused. I'd bowed and exited numbly._

_Now, I sit back on my heels breathlessly, mind whirling even more frantically than usual._

_Not only did I catch somebody, anybody's eye, I garnered the approval of the ruthless, heartless woman who designed the fiery hell that spreads around me. She feels _akin_ to me._

_It's a staggering, horrifying thought. I've never had any pretenses of sainthood. If Daddy asked me where I'd been all night, I'd tell him frankly that I'd been "here and there, getting high mostly". I'm capable of introspection, and I'm aware that I'm selfish, and that it's probably not normal for me to care as little as I do._

_But all the same, the butterflies- they weren't people, they weren't _important_. I didn't feel remorse, per se, but I certainly didn't kill them for, like, _fun_._

_The margin of difference between the two of us - the woman who creates the games and the girl who has become a playing piece within their hellish confines - does not seem very great at all._

_I am still crouched there, bloodied fingers absent-mindedly tracing the swirls of carved rose petals, when the THING hurls itself at me._

_I don't think, but react, turning the face the source of noise and sudden movement, trying to stand._

_The talons of IT sink deep into my shoulder with such force that my feet go out front under me, and I am back on the ground. My head hits packed earth with a dulled thud that resonates beneath my skull._

_Everything is hot breath and claws curling in the flesh of my shoulder for an eternal second, and then my fingers register the carved knife clutched in my sweaty grip. My shoulders are pinned, but I twist my elbow awkwardly, and slam the knife upward._

_IT makes a noise like a scream. I retract, plunge again. The thing is sickeningly furry, tickling the back of my hand as I stab with repeated, haphazard blows to its underbelly. The claws clench, ripping deeper into the tendons just below to the cap of my left shoulder, then ultimately slacken._

_I roll it off me with a few feverish, uncoordinated movements, relieved to discern no movement beneath the THING's furry hide._

_It is long, sleek, with an almost rodent-like face that grosses me out. I pull my precious knife from its body, and slowly back away. There's probably good, fresh meat beneath the nauseating fur, but I can't bring myself to touch it._

_I'm not hungry for anything but a needle anyway._

* * *

Perhaps the only bright side to my withdrawal is that my stomach has yet to utter the slightest grumble of complaint regarding its current barren condition. I'll have to eat eventually, I suppose, because my body needs the nourishment, even if it doesn't feel that way.

A wave of nausea effectively smacks me in the face, nearly bowling me over with its abrupt potency, at the mere thought of food. My throat tightens and I sit back abruptly against the boulder that serves as one-third of my make-shift hide-out.

I am perhaps twenty yards from the stream which I toppled into earlier, where the rodent thing's carcass still lies, huddled uncomfortably in a niche between a boulder and several over-bearing spruce trees.

I have no idea if it effectively hides me from sight, but so far there's been not a peep of excitement since the rodent attack, and I hope it remains that way. I'm in no shape to fight; the way my hands are shaking right now, I doubt I could hit a dartboard two feet from my nose even if I had absolutely perfect eyesight.

Not to mention, the wound on my shoulder is both poisonously painful and heated to the touch, which promises infection and further complications, like fevers and pus- oh, god-

I burst through the layers of sharp pine needles, land on my hands and knees, and immediately bring up whatever remains in my stomach from those long three days ago. Shaking and spitting, I crouch there, trying to still the choppy air that beats around me.

* * *

_Hands, fat and powdered with the smell of latex, pulling haphazardly at lengths of coppery hair._

_"Daddy, you're pulling too tight!"_

_The pigtails fall sloppily to frame a pouting face._

_"Londyn, can't you just wear your hair down?"_

_A foot, little, tries to stamp, but the legs are too small and the bathroom counter upon which she perches too high. "No, Daddy! Tuesday is pigtail day! That's the rule!"_

_The hands reform the pigtails, too loose this time. The fine hair slides out of the elastic's grip._

_"Can't we change the rules, just a little-"_

_Lips pout stubbornly, quivering. "Mommy said Tuesday is pigtail day- _Ow_! Daddy! Too tight!"_

_The hands clench, release. "Does Gran know how to do pigtails?"_

_Little shoulders shrug, feet swinging in the air. "Prob'ly."_

_"Great." Fat hands boost the little body down to the tile floor, cold on bare feet. "Let's go talk to her, then."_

_The little hand finds the big one._

* * *

My arms shake so violently that they nearly give way. I only just avoid falling face-first into my own sick.

The logical thing to do, I know, would be to drag my slack body down to the stream and wash away the bile from my tongue and the bacteria from the wound to which my clothes cling stickily, but when I try to stand, the muscles of my leg feel like liquid. To go back to the stream means to pass the furry, oblong body stretched in the mud.

I retch, but there's nothing left to vomit.

In the distance, I hear dulled thrums of explosions, very quiet in comparison to my own pulse, rising and falling like static on a television set in my ears. It's yet another reminder of how very volatile the night that swirls quietly around me truly is.

I cough thickly, swipe at my running nose, and crawl back beneath the pine-scented underbrush into my little crevice.

It feels uncomfortably like hiding. Probably because that's what it is.

I close my eyes and pretend it doesn't feel like losing.

* * *

_A cut-crystal glass, half full, the same oddly-sweet aroma that constantly perfumed my mother's form when she leaned over little-girl limbs to tuck in the fraying corners of a beloved baby blanket._

_"Scared?" Tanner reeks of body odor and pot as he swings his unwashed form up onto the sleek marble of the kitchen counter, decidedly out of place amongst the clean-cut corners and shining steel surfaces. He knocks back his own glass - Daddy's best crystal, a wedding gift from a co-worker - and returns it, emptied, to the countertop with a hollowed clink._

_"No," I snipe, terrified, "just asphyxiating on your stench."_

_"You look kind of scared," he observes, not sober enough to remember my frequently-issued reminders that I can and will deck his ass, should the need or whim ever arise._

_I don't allow myself to breath, tilting back my head and letting the alcohol sift rapidly through my clenched teeth. I don't swallow 'til the cup's empty, then bang it down triumphantly._

_I miss the counter by an inch or so, and the glass slips from my fingers, and crashes to the tiled floor with a musical explosion of crystal shards, like my mother's melancholy melodies on the piano._

_Tanner snorts an uncouth laugh, and after a wavery minute, I join in weakly. My head hurts from the noise of it._

* * *

I wake in a frenzied sweat, jolting into consciousness as if slamming the door on a nightmare, though I don't recall dreaming at all. I awake more limply exhausted than I was when my eyes closed.

Believe it or not, it's pretty hard to get in those full nine recommended hours of sleep when you're:

a) fearing for your life

b) afraid to relieve your bladder for fear all them folks back at home'll catch themselves an eye-full

c) being rudely interrupted by scenic noises such as explosions and rapid-fire shots every time your eyes begin to droop

d) shaking all over from withdrawal because you haven't shot up since you were propelled into this hellhole three whole days ago

e) sitting under a tree that smells of one too many pine-scented air fresheners

It's the apex of night now, chilled and probably dark as pitch. I speculate I've slept for two, maybe three hours, and mentally chide myself for once more giving in to the wearisome attitude of pessimism that has slowly but surely overtaken my normal fiery defiance.

Now, I'm not the kind of girl who likes to think about how she's going to die, but up until recently I wouldn't have had many qualms about putting my money on a fate similar to this:

Me, with a needle in my arm and too much liquid fire in my veins, closing my eyes and surrendering to the darkness.

Daddy, crying and lamenting like it actually matters all that much, no doubt inscribing something absolutely horrendous and heartfelt on my tombstone. He'd probably bury me next to my mother.

Gran, sitting in her yellow-painted room at the Home until the end of time, wondering at the girl in the photographs on the wall who is persistently smiling in the opposite direction of the camera, until the edges wrinkle and the images yellow and even the memories preserved in color fade away.

And I probably would have been okay with that, too, you know? Because then at least I'd die while I was still young and vital and feared.

I lean back against the sheltering boulder, shivering and tasting acid in my mouth, and think bitterly that this is the antithesis of my ideal exit scenario. This isn't going out like a star or burning down like the city of London, with plumes of smoke and wreckage in my wake. This is dying quietly, pitifully, like the weak little blind girl, my alter-ego whose identity I assumed.

This is giving up.

I don't like giving in anymore than I like being afraid.

To be afraid of something means to submit to it, to acknowledge and indulge in weakness, and Londyn Aureole is not known for her obedience or willingness to submit.

_Obstinate, nonsensical_, Daddy always used to say helplessly, a string of words dripping weariness rather than venom, as he swept up shards of crystal from the kitchen floor, stepping around puddles of spilt alcohol. _Impossible, irrational, contrary._

_Obstinate, like me, _Gran used to say approvingly, bringing in mugs of warm, spicy cider or coffee on those nights where I spent hours tracing bumps on parchment in an attempt to orient myself in the endless dark of my blindness. _Irrepressible, intelligent, nothing like your mother._

Gran was of that clear-minded, inexplicable breed of women who harbored naught but disgust - not hatred so much as perhaps revulsion and a lack of respect entirely - for their offspring. She did not lie when I asked why my eyes did not work, offered no excuses, simply stated that she had raised my mother as best she could, but there were some who were just born weak.

Daddy always said it wasn't healthy, those years I spent in the dusty old house, that it put odd notions into my head about rights and wrongs. He would say mournfully that Gran had no right to tarnish a child's memories of her late mother, but I always appreciated that Gran did not soften the edges of the truths she told.

If anything put odd notions in my head, personally, I would have to blame the gin and tonic, the early morning "nightcaps", a pregnant woman knocking back glasses of amber hopelessly, like one drowning.

There is nothing irregular about a teenage girl who despises her mother, but in most cases the mother is not entirely to blame. This is a different story. The hatred, the disgust, is righteous, though the blame falls on one dead and gone.

My mother was born weak, but in the same way that sharp-tongued, spitefully arrogant Gran gave birth to a daughter lacking a spine, that daughter gave way to me.

In the distant, something - maybe someone - explodes. I wish for the millionth time to see, to watch flaming streaks of something that used to be take flight into the sky. Then I turn my mind away and get to my feet, more to make some sort of metaphorical statement than to serve any actual purpose.

Taking a sort of mental inventory, I determine that for now I am relatively free of the symptoms of withdrawal, excepting the slight quiver of my fingers and the chill that makes my skin sting in the cool night air. My wounded shoulder throbs sharply with the beat of my pulse, hot and sickeningly firm to the touch around the site of the claw marks.

I doubt I'll be throwing any knives, at least not to any grand result, until I do something about the infection already poisoning my insides. I think briefly of medicine, wondering at the possibilities of further sponsoring, and my starved mind immediately flits to other purposes that medicine could serve.

The veins beneath the pocked scars of my arm suddenly seem to beat that much faster. My heads briefly whirls, colors and sounds and music flashing-

* * *

_"What do you mean you're not going?" Daddy's incredulous, voice pitched high, already aware he's fighting a losing battle._

_"It means I'm not going." My voice is flat, merciless, but still childlike in timbre._

_"Londyn, your _mother_-"_

_Blank, emotionless, almost amused. "Is dead. Gran and I have plans. She doesn't like it at the Home. She says everyone smells like senility and cough drops and government dependency. They don't let her play the piano-"_

_Stiffly. "Gran is not our concern any longer, Londyn. They'll take care of her at the Home. She's not- she's not your _mother_-"_

_Muttered, sulkily. "Thank God for that."_

_Daddy doesn't ask next Sunday, or the next, about visiting the graveyard. No complaints are issued._

* * *

-but I force it back, swallowing down a retch as the nausea swirls like a raucous tide, then retreats. I close my fingers around the hilt of my knife, cut gems digging with smooth corners.

Another problem that must be dealt with.

I know, from experience, that the random flashbacks and odd bouts of nostalgia will progress into feverish hallucinations, mixes of memories and nightmares and hysteria. It will be very hard to focus once these frightening flashes of insanity begin, and focus is everything right now.

But if I could get something, anything, to take the edge off the gnawing hunger in my veins for something more precious than food…

I clench harder as another wave crashes and retreats, leaving me shivering and battered. I brace a hand against the face of the tall boulder, lock my knees until the feelings of vertigo and nausea lessen, then try to relocate my thoughts.

I need food. I need medication. I need a needle.

I have a weapon. I have a source of water and a place to hunker down and hide. I have desperation on my side, driving my heartbeat and my footsteps.

And then, like lightning, I have an idea as well.

It's a groundless, horrific, doomed sort of idea, but if certainly holds its appeal. It's a chance, but it's better than crouching in the stifling scent of pine, slowly deteriorating, until someone stumbles along and has enough mercy to put me out of my misery.

I object to being pitied. Which is ironic, considering it's pretty much how I've survived thus far.

But I'm done with that now. If I have to die, I'd like to do it on my own terms, preferably after shooting up. On a tropical island. With pineapple soda.

I think back to the cornucopia, looming like a last chance, charting it in the tentative map I have established in the blankness of my mindscape, based on the descriptions of the ever-courteous Sean Armani. It's no tropical island, but it's a chance.

I've listened to enough broadcasts of the Games to know that the cornucopia is where the weapons and the food and the medication and the survival gear is stowed, drawing tributes like flies to honey. I knew better than to go that way myself in the frenzy of the bloodbath.

From the Games, I've learned that the majority of the stash is always horded away by the Careers who tend to dominate the battlefield.

To find the Careers, I assume, one must simply follow the trail of smoke and human debris.

There actually really isn't any plan at all, when you think about it. So I don't. Think about it, that is.

Instead, I spit thickly a couple times to clear my pukey mouth, rub my bloodied fingers along the tines of the precious plastic comb in my pocket, and repeat Phoenix's less-than motivational words like a mantra in my head.

_My kind of girl. My kind of girl. My kind of girl._

This time, I summon the memory of my own accord.

* * *

"_Ready," says Gran, taking my shoulders in her spindly hands and spinning me like top until my feet stumble over each other and my sense of balance is so disrupted that I briefly lose track of where her voice is originating from. "Set. Go!"_

_She pushes me forward with a little shove and I close my eyes rhetorically, squinting in concentration as I try to listen to the way the air moves, hands stretched out before me as a safety precaution._

_"Gran, I-"_

_She doesn't answer, but I hear the swish of fabric that signals movement, and decide it might be my best bet to follow Gran's movements if I wish to avoid being impaled by one of the many obstructing odds and ends she has scattered across the room._

_The noise stops. I flounder in the direction of where I believe the couch to be located, hands held aloft like I'm pretending to be a zombie arising from the dead. One step, two, and my feet hit carpet._

_I smile gleefully. If I've reached the carpet, I'm nearly halfway across the room, and have yet to-_

_My hands hit cold, textured rock, and by then it's too late. I pitch forward, crashing over the prostrate marble form of Gran's favorite naked-man-sculpture, and scrub my nose brutally across the surface of the rug that no longer feels quite so redemptive._

_By the time I've disentangled my feet from between Naked Man's limbs and ensured that I have not left behind the greater portion of my nose in the scratchy fibers of the living room rug, Gran has swished through the maze of tables, sculptures, decorative anchors, and bowling balls. She swats dust off my form in brisk, somewhat painful blows, then takes my hand and guides me back to the threshold of the parlor._

_"We can stop if you want," she says briskly in a manner that really detracts some of the generosity from her statement._

_I am still dizzy, and shaking my head no is nearly enough to send me toppling. Gran's hands move to steady my shoulders. They squeeze, rather painfully due to her sharp nails, but warmly all the same as I shake my head once more. "No. I can do it."_

_"That's my girl," she says approvingly, and the torturous spinning begins once more._

* * *

It was in this manner that I learned how to navigate unfamiliar, heavily populated areas by observation alone. To this day I am not sure how Gran concocted the exercise, nor do I have an idea how she could possibly have carried Naked Man, made of solid marble, down two flights of stairs.

It took me three weeks to master the art, and another three for my brutally bruised shins to completely heal, but by the month's end I could practically run the length of the house without once stumbling on the multitude of oddities that Gran consisted on collecting, simply by listening hard and being quick to memorize things' locations.

I was eight, and pretty much a hot-shot.

This, a full lifetime later, is a whole 'nother can of proverbial worms entirely, but Gran's words still come back to buffet me, bullying me with sharp fingernails and guilting me with lofty expectations, into bravery.

I brush aside the limbs of prickly pine decisively, and step into the clearing, receiving a thwack on the nose by a rebounding branch that nearly brings me to tears.

Not the best of starts, but it'll do.

I draw my knife, free hand moving to clutch at Gran's comb, and start off in the night, moving hesitantly and listening, alive with purpose and intent _at last_.

God forbid I run across a single butterfly…


	56. Dead is Dead

_Recently it's come to light that some people are upset that the games are moving too "slowly". I need to say a few things about that. Each games cannot have a fast kill rate all at first. Fast kill rate means a fast game, it means that authors get no chance to write anything other than two chapters and never have a chance to progress. Not all games are fast. Games can last from mere days to near a month it's said before in canon._

_I can only post as fast as my authors get their stuff in. Sometimes it's on time, sometimes it's late because things happen or people get lazy OR busy. Sometimes medical emergencies come up and sometimes people have to quit and we have to figure what do with their character quickly before we can even go on._

_The health of myself, my staff, and my "tributes" matters more than this story._

_It has also been told numerously that this story would be long and drawn out because it's not the story of one, but 24. We got to know Katniss in 3 books, but we only get to know these characters in one brief story which is usually a max of 20,000 words unless you're an Armani._

_There is a POINT to this particular story being long and bloody without a lot of death so far. Not all games will be like this, and I'm almost positive next games will be faster paced. This is a Quell, it is punishment. If you love us and believe in us, as I hope you do, then you'll know what we have planned is spectacular something that has been tediously worked on for MONTHS to get it right._

_So things will proceed according to plan, those who are unwilling to wait for the events that are literally a mere chapter away from being revealed and bound to make things so very interesting are not being forced to stay. __Those of you who are impatient and even ungracious there's the door; our tributes have to stay here, but you most certainly don't._

_Remember Gamemaker Phoenix knows all, and she's watching you carefully._

* * *

**Maeve Morghal of District 3**

**Day 4**

**By Falconflight**

* * *

The rain doesn't fall like real rain; it falls in regular intervals, repeating over and over again like a ticking clock. I haven't been able to talk to Diode since Launch Day. The repetition makes it too hard to clear my mind; all I can concentrate on is the sound of the rain hitting the ground. _Plip plop. Plip plop. Tick tock. Tick tock._

The light in the Arena is fading, indicating the coming of night. There's no sunset, though; the gray clouds blot out the sun. Maybe the Arena hasn't even been programmed to have a sun; the Gamemakers may have seen it as too hopeful of symbol.

I sigh, trying to block out the sound of the rain, and recline into the wall of the trench. The trench is soaked and muddy, but at this point, personal hygiene is very low on my list of concerns. I am, however, worried about not infecting my leg. Several cuts and scratches decorate my left leg, and though none of them are too big or deep, infection will be the death of me. I don't plan on dying.

The other issue of the trench is the lack of protection. The further away from the Cornucopia I got, the less barbed wire surrounded the trenches. Perhaps the Gamemakers want to give tributes a larger chance to kill other tributes, or they have some sort of surprise for the tributes who didn't want to risk finding a way underneath the barbed wire. I am, however confident that I have at least another day before the Gamemakers launch another big trap.

Even the wounds brought on by the mutts and the lack of protection do not rank number one on my list of priorities, though. Right now, I need to clear my head and try to contact Diode. People have already started dying, as indicated by the brown smudges through their names, and I need my next assignment. The rain isn't making this easy.

"Ignore it," I whisper quietly to myself. "The rain isn't there."

"Don't think about the color purple."

The fact that I'm not dead yet indicates that the person who has managed to sneak up on me is not a Career. I silently curse my stupidity and the rain for obscuring the tribute's footsteps. I turn as nonchalantly as possible to face a boy with stormy gray eyes.

"What are you thinking about now?" Lucian Drake asks.

_What is he doing here? _I wonder. Why would he come and find me? And what kind of game is he playing by asking a question like that? "The color purple," I answer slowly.

"You're not going to clear your mind by doing that," Lucian warns before extending his hand. "Lucian Drake."

I examine his hand cautiously. "Handshakes seem a bit formal given our situation. What do you want?"

Lucian doesn't answer at first. "I've been looking for people to be in an alliance with me," he explains at last. "Since the mutt attack forced us all together, I decided that it was time to start searching."

"You want me to be in an alliance with you," I state plainly.

"To put it simply, yes. It's a bit more complicated than that. This alliance isn't going to be built on trust or common goals; it is simply going to exist," Lucian explains.

I have to admit it sounds strangely fascinating. "Intriguing."

"Isn't it?" Lucian has a look on his face that I can't quite place. A smirk is breaking through the businessman-like face he is presenting. "I'll elaborate more later; I don't want to waste my speech on an audience of one."

"Who else do you want to waste your speech on?" I ask.

There is a spark of humor in Lucian's eyes. "I'll tell you, but I need your word that you won't run off on me. After I explain, you can leave, but you need to help me find the others first."

Whatever humor was in Lucian's steel-colored eyes is gone now, replaced with an intensity that says he'll kill me if I say no. I wait for Diode to say what I should do, but all I hear is the rain. I have to make this decision alone, without Death to guide me. I feel insecure and afraid without the knowledge of my master there. What if I make a bad choice that leads to my death?

_I'm not going to die,_ I tell myself. _I'm not going to die. Death said I won't, and he's not wrong. What would he want me to do, though?_

"You have my word," I rely carefully, "if I have yours."

"Why would I go to all the trouble to find you just to run away again?" Lucian asks, raising an eyebrow.

He makes a valid point. "Very well. You have my word. Who am I looking for?"

"Erik Fiske and Atalanta Zimmerman," Lucian answers. "I saw Erik going to the west, and Atalanta went north." He points out each direction as he speaks. "I think you can handle Erik; I'll go after Atalanta. Don't tell Erik who is starting the alliance, and don't give out too many specific details about the nature of it. That would ruin my speech."

I nod. "We wouldn't want that."

"No one likes a joke when they already know the punch line," Lucian agrees. "If you don't find Erik, come back before sunrise." Lucian stands up, and I stand up as well. "This is the start of something great." With that, Lucian climbs out of the trench, and he is gone.

I don't hear the sound of the rain as I climb out of the trench and turn in the direction Lucian had indicated. Maybe it's because this is the first time where there's no action, but I have something to concentrate on. I have a mission other than surviving, and I can focus. No plip plop plip plop. Just silence as I think about what I'm doing.

"_Hey. What are you doing?_" I hear Diode's voice in my head again for the first time in four days. It's familiar, and I feel strangely reassured knowing that Death is with me once more.

"I made an alliance while you were gone," I inform him. "I'm looking for some of the other members right now."

"_With who?_" Diode asks curiously.

"Lucian Drake," I answer. "And possibly Atalanta Zimmerman and Erik Fiske."

"_Interesting._"

Diode is silent for a long period of time as I keep trekking through the muddy terrain. My boots stick to the ground for half a second, making a _squish_ noise as I tug them free and set them down again. I wonder if life could ever grow from the beige slosh that the rain has reduced the earth to. I doubt it; there is never life in the Arena.

Diode's voice returns again. "_Death approves of this decision; it will help you win._"

"Good," I murmur. "Any predictions for me?"

Diode pauses again. "_No. Death is silent. He is, however, curious as to what you think of the Games so far._"

I contemplate this. "It's absolutely wonderful," I confess quietly, though I know there is no one to hear me except for Diode. "I've never felt so close to my master. He's practically here next to me. I can see the death everywhere; it feels absolutely exhilarating to be in a place so thick with it."

I stop in the middle of the thick sludgy battlefield and inhale deeply. I can practically smell the death. It reeks like bitter rotting flesh; it smells amazing. I can feel the presence of Death everywhere, like the sour odor of spoiled milk dispersing throughout the room or the nagging feeling that someone else is in the room with you. Watching you.

I whirl around, brandishing my fists to fight off the other tribute. I see a boy much taller than me; the skin on his hands looks like dried mud, which indicates that he's from an outlying district. His face is obscured by a brown sacking which he is wearing for some reason. He almost looks like a scarecrow.

"Erik?" I ask cautiously.

Erik's head snaps in my direction; he doesn't know where I am, or didn't a minute ago. Shoot. He has a scythe strapped to his back; the curved blade of the weapon glints dully in the dying light. I take a few steps back; he could easily hurt me; this could be the end of me.

"_It won't,_" Diode assures me. "_He's not going to hurt you._"

With this pleasant thought in mind, I carefully repeat, "Erik?"

His head snaps to the side again as if he's contemplating whether or not I'm actually there. He fumbles with the bag on his head and rips it off. His hazel eyes narrow as he analyses me. "What."

"I am Maeve Morghal, Death's Messenger," I announce with as much authority in my voice as possible. "I am here to propose an alliance to you."

"With just you?" Erik asks. His voice is deep and gruff.

"No. With me and two other people," I answer.

"Are you going to tell me who they are?" he presses.

"I've been instructed not to tell you," I say apologetically.

"Then why should I trust you?" Erik demands. He makes a fair point.

"You can't," I admit. "This alliance isn't going to be built on trust, though."

Erik raises an eyebrow. "What will it be built on?"

I shrug. "I don't know; we'll have to go back to find out."

I can practically see the gears turning in Erik's head. "Can I leave the alliance if I don't like the idea?"

"Of course." But Lucian will probably kill you.

"Let's get going, then." Erik gives me a 'lead the way' look and nods his head ever so slightly.

The rain hasn't washed away my foot prints, so I retrace my steps back to the trench. Lucian and Atalanta haven't arrived yet, so I jump down into the trench, the sound muffled by the sludgy earth. Erik lands with a dull thud next to me, and through my peripheral vision, I see him looking around.

"Where are the others?" he demands.

"They're not here yet," I answer calmly. "They'll be here soon. We should set up camp while we wait."

"We don't have much to set up with," Erik comments.

"Then we'll just wait." I don't want to go back to waiting again; waiting means listening to the rain again and hearing the endless pattern. I have nothing to do to distract myself, though, and the more I try to clear my head so I can talk to Diode again, the more I can hear the rain.

I try not to acknowledge it, to focus on anything but the noise, but suddenly I hear it and it's the only thing I can think about. The repetition is driving me insane, driving away any focus in my mind. I force myself to sit down next to Erik, who has taken his scythe out in case anyone comes upon the trench. He doesn't seem to notice my face contorting as I attempt to notice something- anything but the pattern.

My attention turns, or attempts to, to Erik. He has put the sacking over his face again, which ruins the purpose of trying to protect us with the scythe. There is something peculiar about his jacket that I notice. Instead of saying _Fiske, 11_ on the center, it says _Blackwater, 8_. I contemplate asking him why he has Damien's jacket, but as I puzzle over the mystery, I finally have clarity in my head, and I hear Diode's voice again.

"_Death does have a message for you, it turns out,_" Diode announces.

I glance at Erik, but he doesn't seem to be paying any attention to me, and if he is, he's being discrete about it. I can't tell if he's looking at me thanks to the bag, but if I stay quiet, he won't notice anyway.

"What is it?" I whisper quietly.

"_Alaric,_" Diode answers. "_He will die a very gruesome death._"

"Very specific," I mutter.

"_I don't have any more details for you,_" Diode apologizes.

Without a writing utensil, I can't write down the prediction, but I make a mental note of it and write it in the mud with a finger. Studies say people remember stuff better if they write it down, so since I'm going to have to remember it, I might as well write it once for precautionary purposes.

"Thank you," I murmur. There is a silence, so I quickly invent a random question to avoid concentrating on the rain again. "Do you know why there aren't many deaths? The Games seem to be going unusually slow compared to previous ones."

"Are we interrupting something?"

This is the second time Lucian has managed to sneak up on me, and it is getting a bit irritating. I should really try to be more alert, but I had to concentrate on talking to Diode and, technically, Death. Everything else is secondary. I look up at him; Atalanta is at his side with her arms folded, and I note a pair of daggers in her belt. I can't tell if he's mocking me or not.

Erik also hears the voice of the newcomers, and he rips the bag off of his head. Upon seeing Lucian, something of a smirk forms on his face. "Decided to take me up on my offer then?" he asks. "The Careers aren't dead yet."

"An excellent observation, Erik," Lucian agrees. "I'm working on that; I've even been saving my first kill for them."

"You haven't killed anyone yet?" Atalanta asks. She seems surprised, and I am as well. The shaking at the Reapings had given me the impression that he is much less composed than he pretends to be and would become the first monster of the Quarter Quell.

"No, I am giving Canicus that honor," Lucian answers. "So, I suppose you're all wondering why I've gathered you here. After all, there is little that Death's Messenger, an outlying Career, a Scarecrow, and myself have in common. However, I have selected all of you to join me in an alliance that is sure to be remembered and feared by all."

It is obvious that Lucian has already talked to Atalanta and Erik, and although they are listening, they are not doing so very intently. This is new information to me, however, so when Lucian sits down and beckons Atalanta to do the same, I am all ears.

"In the Old World, there were four riders," Lucian begins. "These riders were Conquest, War, Famine and Death. They had the task of spreading their aspect and bring about the apocalypse. They must have succeeded, given where we are today."

"Bedtime stories are great and all," Atalanta interjects, "but can you get to the explaining part?"

"I am explaining," Lucian assures her. "What do you call all the talking I was doing?"

"Exposition," Atalanta answers sharply. "Unnecessary exposition."

"I'll try to keep it simple so I don't bore our less intellectual allies," Lucian promises, which causes Atalanta to scowl, but she doesn't respond. Lucian turns his attention back to Erik and I. "During my time in the Arena, I've been thinking about these riders and how they eventually brought about so many horrible things, and I was also thinking 'what if I created an alliance based around these four riders and their aspects?' A counter to the Career alliance in a way, but not solely focused on destroying the Careers."

"So what will we be focused on?" Atalanta demands.

"That's the beauty of this alliance. We won't have a specific goal," Lucian explains. "All four of us have very different goals, as well as different histories and personalities. We have next to nothing in common, which would give the illusion that we are not compatible for an alliance. We are, however, compatible. We each have goals that could be more easily accomplished in an alliance, and some of us have other reasons to benefit from being in a group. These common benefits are what will bind our alliance. Not trust, not common interests, or the need to kill off only the Careers. The simple desire to be in an alliance will be what keeps us together."

"Sounds potentially promising," Atalanta comments. "I'm in."

"I'm in," Erik echoes.

All eyes turn on me. Atalanta is right; it does sound promising. I had become so deeply invested in what Lucian had been saying, though, that Diode's voice has disappeared, leaving me alone to make yet another decision. Two of the people in the alliance are armed and can easily make me their first target. I won't survive much longer on my own anyway, and Diode had said earlier that this alliance will help me win.

"I'm in." There is finality in those words, a sense of passing the point of no return. I don't mind, though. Death is also a point of no return, and everyone must pass it at some time.

"Excellent." Lucian smiles a wolf-like grin, as if he's imagining all the things we'll do as allies. "It's getting a bit late, and I'm afraid horsemen need their sleep."

"Are you going to call us that now?" Atalanta asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Conquest," Lucian answers.

"We get nicknames too?" Atalanta fakes excitement at this revelation.

"Of course. Why would I draw inspiration from a story about four horsemen and not use it at all? You are the white horse of conquest." He gestures to himself. "I am the red horse of war. Erik," he points to said tribute, "is the black horse of famine, and Maeve," he stares at me with his dark and piercing gray eyes, "is the pale horse of death."

"How fitting," I comment.

"Indeed," Lucian agrees. "Would you like to take the first watch, Death?"

I don't mind taking the position because I do want to see if I can contact Diode again. However, I won't do much as a guard without a weapon. "Perhaps someone who is armed should take the first watch."

Atalanta pulls a dagger from her belt and hands the hilt to me. "You better give this back, thr –" She almost calls me three; I can see the number of my district forming on the tip of her tongue. "Death."

"I will," I assure her. I take the dagger and turn it around a bit. I'm not very familiar with weapons, but my theory is that as long as I end up stabbing someone, it doesn't matter how clean or well I do it. Death is Death, no matter how it happens. "Who should I wake up for the second watch?"

"I'll do it," Erik volunteers.

"Which means twe- War and I will do it tomorrow night?" Atalanta questions.

"If we survive that long," Lucian answers. "But let's not spoil our dreams with that. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Erik echoes. He falls asleep nearly seconds afterwards.

Atalanta ignores Lucian's hospitality and falls asleep against the other wall of the trench. Lucian, however, does not fall asleep. His eyes are closed, but I know he's awake. I wait for him to fall asleep like the others, but he doesn't. He remains lightly dozing as the night goes on.

Finally, I can't help but comment. "If you were going to stay awake, you should have taken the first watch."

Lucian's eyes open; they glow like silver in the dark. "Probably, although I didn't mean to stay awake. I had been planning on falling asleep."

"And now you're not planning on it?" I ask.

"You're talking to me, thus ruining my plans," Lucian informs me.

"Would you like me to shut up?" I offer.

"No, I think I'll be able to rest more easily after an actual conversation," he explains. He shifts into a more casual and comfortable position. "So, are you actually Death's Messenger?"

I don't hesitate for a second. "Yes."

"Death and I are very good friends, you know," he says. "He's probably one of my only friends."

"Are you mocking me?" I demand, bristling slightly.

"No," he assures me. "It's the truth; I've known Death for a very long time. I was first attracted to the beauty of death, and you of all people should know how lovely it is."

It is strange to have a conversation with a person who doesn't think I'm crazy for saying I'm Death's Messenger and actually agrees with me and my perspective on death. "There's nothing more magnificent," I agree quietly, still a bit overwhelmed by the idea of someone not questioning my sanity.

"What first attracted you to the idea of death?" Lucian asks. His tone is casual and mildly curious, not something you find often in the Arena.

I don't usually talk about how I became Death's Messenger, but that's mostly because no one ever cared to ask. "When I was ten, my sister, Esther, and I were home alone. Something in our house overheated, and a fire started. Esther died, and I was knocked unconscious for a week."

"I'm sorry." Lucian's voice lacks real sympathy, as if he's not actually sorry but saying it just because it is the traditional response.

"Don't be. We weren't close," I assure him. "Anyway, when I finally woke up again, we went to Esther's funeral, and I heard her voice in my head. She told me that our neighbor was going to die, and a few weeks later, he did. I heard his voice too afterwards." I pause, thinking about my story. "Looking back on it, I think it was my near-death experience that awakened my abilities." I pause again. "It's exhilarating to be so close to death."

Before Lucian can answer, we hear the Panem Anthem blasting across the Arena, loud enough to break through the rain. There is a single face in the sky. That of Alaric. His canon must have gone off when it was raining harder because I don't remember it going off. Either way, another person has died and I must mark off their name.

"Finally, someone who understands," Lucian says after the seal is shown for a second time. He pauses before announcing, "I think I can go to sleep now. We'll talk again tomorrow. Goodnight, Death." Lucian reclines into the wall again and closes his eyes. I'm not sure if he goes to sleep or not.

The phrase he used at the end of our conversation sticks with me as I continue my watch duty. It seems a bit redundant to me. People say goodnight at the end of the conversation; it is a closure of sorts. Death is also a closure, though, a closure to life. Saying 'Goodnight, Death' is like ending twice, and that's like dying twice. No one dies twice.

* * *

**_LIST OF THE DEAD_**

Fatalities (In Order):

1. Alexis Spurling, District 7 female: Decapitated by bomb shrapnel.

2. Edrick Quillheart, District 6 male: Killed in torpedo explosion.

3. Bianca Neve, District 11 female: Killed by Lucian Drake.

4. Con Rossencourte, District 4 male: Killed by Admire Blanchard.

5. Bastian Estatika, District 5 male: Killed by Jet Matthews.

6. Juniper Harris, District 9 female: Killed by Jonas Emerson.

7. Galla Cinder, District 12 female: Killed by ferret mutts.

8. Alaric Pakalin, District 9: Unknown

_**LIST OF THE NOT DEAD**_

**District 1:**

Canicus Macaulay

Admire Blanchard

**District 2:**

Jet Matthews

Sade Artois

**District 3:**

Brennadon Rydik

Maeve Morghal

**District 4:**

Roulla Saney

**District 5:**

Atalanta Zimmerman

**District 6:**

Londyn Aureole

**District 7:**

Jonas Emerson

**District 8:**

Damian Blackwater

Anya Powers

**District 10:**

Sean Armani

Pipper Young

**District 11:**

Eric Fiske

**District 12:**

Lucian Drake


	57. The Push and Pull of Self-Restraint

_Sorry about not updating yesterday. Dog is sick and had to be taken to the vet twice. Keep him in your thoughts and prayers._

* * *

**Brennadon "Bren" Rydik of District 3**

**Day Five**

**By Fritz as Pritz**

* * *

"_The hardest thing in this world is to live in it."_

-Buffy (_Buffy the Vampire Slayer_)

* * *

I've counted once how long it would take for me to completely die of hunger. It was a challenge from Westley at the time. It was after we had watched the Games together and a girl had died from starvation. He told me that that is one advantage that the lesser districts will always have; it was an advantage he wished I had. He didn't straight out tell me to starve myself, but I was curious and my curiosity had the tendency to cause trouble. I lasted nine days before Westley accidentally hit me too hard during practice and I blacked out. By the time I woke up, he told me that if I ever tried pulling a stunt like that again, he'd whip me himself.

I'm not entirely sure what day it is in the arena. The sun doesn't move at the same rate that it did back home so it could be one real day or it could be one week. In the arena time, I've counted five days. In that time, I've had to rely on rain water and the roots I managed to remember from training to survive. I don't touch the plants though. Too many of them could be poisoned and I don't want to risk it. With the roots and tubers I managed to dig up, I could identify them easier. They taste horribly and every time I force myself into biting into one, I can't help imagining that it would taste better grilled or with sugar all over it. I don't eat them if I can help it and I've gone a day without food because I couldn't bear getting the taste in my mouth.

I pause and stare at the rough, brown vegetable in the weak moonlight. I found it two days ago when I woke up early by the southern force field. It was the second one I managed to find within the last five days, the first one being a small radish that was hardly even a nibble. I've only taken two bites out of this one because it tastes like dirt. Hell, dirt probably tastes better than this shit. Groaning a little, I plug my nose and take a small bite. Chewing it as fast as I could, I swallow it down and close my eyes, trying to ignore the taste on my tongue.

Taking a few deep breaths, I try to remember which direction I was going to go before the idea of food popped into my head. I have taken to staying beside the force field that surrounds the arena, although I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is because I feel better seeing the familiar barrier that I've made countless times back in District Three. It's the only familiar thing about this stupid arena.

The moon hangs low, though it is hard to make out with the clouds covering it. If my hypothesis about the rate of time in the arena is correct, then I have about an hour before the sun rises to its full and the other tributes begin to come out to play. So far, I've managed to stay away from the others by working at night and sleeping in the day. I know it is risky, especially if one of the tributes finds me while I sleep in the day time, but I have always worked better at night. (Westley once called me half-bat because of my nocturnal schedule.) Nights are my element and I intend to use everything I can. So I have wake up just as the sun sets, gather whatever I have with me, and walk until the sun begins to rise and then rest until the next day comes.

By now, I have walked around the entire arena and have scoped out most of the land which is basically a giant battle field with some trees and miscellaneous surprises scattered around. Since I have a general layout of the arena, I want to try finding my way back to the main trenches around the Cornucopia. I have no idea if any tribute bothered to stay there, and I'm hoping that there isn't anyone. It's not as if I want to go there to fight.

I feel the pressure of the stick in my hand. It's a decent sized log that I can wrap my hand around easily. Height wise, it barely reaches my hip. As spears go, it is a good one and I have practiced my throwing since coming here, but as a replacement quarterstaff, it is the worst weapon ever. The main reason for that is being that it is too small and while I can flourish it, there is no way I can block a sword or a knife with this weakling.

When I had first entered into the arena, one of the very first things I noticed (other than the flying airplanes, bombs, and the complete chaos) was a long sturdy stick that stood as a foundation to the trench in front of me. It was the perfect size for me and it was almost as if it was meant for me. However, it was nailed to the foundation and I couldn't pry it loose. I tried to search the trenches for something that could get it loose, but that stupid kid from Twelve kept following me and I couldn't focus right. After all of my injuries, I figured it would be best if I grabbed the easiest stick I could get my hands on and start for the barrier.

Getting the quarterstaff now is not going to be easy, if I can get it at all. It's literally nailed in and glued to the other logs around it. I would need a hatchet or sword to get at it, but the Gamemakers made it very clear that they weren't giving those out to just anyone.

Running my hands through my hair I try to think of anything that Westley told me that might be of help, but nothing comes to mind. He was a Career. He knew weapons and fighting. Careers never need to make their own weapons or search for food because they had the stuff in the Cornucopia. A lot of good that's doing this time around, seeing as the Cornucopia is completely empty. I'm glad that at least the Careers (mainly Canicus) are suffering just as much as I am.

I start walking away from the force field and begin to venture within the trees. Maybe I'll come up with something on my way there. Besides, I don't have long before I need to search for a trench to sleep in and there is no way in hell I would ever try sleeping around the Cornucopia.

As I move forward, I realize how loud my steps are and how deep my breathing is. It's strange that I've never noticed this before. Why haven't I noticed it before? Then I stop all together.

It's quiet. It's too quiet as if the Gamemakers have turned off the sound in the arena. There is no wind or animals about. It's just silent. I've read once that people have been known to go insane in a completely quiet room. I wonder if the Gamemakers are trying to pull that, but then it would be lame to repeat what happened last year. Then I hear the familiar buzz of a fighter plane going by. That's when I realize what has happened.

It's stopped raining. It has been pouring ever since we got in this stupid place and now it's suddenly stopped. I don't like that. It just means that the Gamemakers are planning trouble.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something fly down and I nearly run for cover in case it is a bomb, but then I look and see a silver parachute. There must be another tribute around because there is no way I have any sponsors. In fact, I am pretty sure I am the most boring tribute right about now.

The parachute shimmies past all of the branches before getting caught on a low one that is just within my reach. Maybe I can check it just to make sure that it isn't mine. I go to the prize and see a compass tied to it with a little note card attached. On the card, written in fancy handwriting, is my name.

I have a bad feeling about this. Mentors aren't normally allowed to give cards and if they are, they never use the opportunity. That means that it has to be a Gamemaker who sent this. I take a deep breath and open the card. In the dim light it reads:

_Follow the way and you'll find what you want most._

_Kisses, Phoenix_

Head Gamemaker Phoenix. That woman is insane. Well, you sort of have to be to be a Head Gamemaker, right? I must be right about being a boring tribute, otherwise I wouldn't be getting such a "present" from the Head Crazy herself. I look over the note again then pry loose the compass from the parachute. The red arrow that normally points north is pointing northeast.

This could be a trap. In fact, I am ninety-five percent sure that it is a trap and even the extra five percent is leaning toward a trap like circumstance. The Gamemakers don't offer anything good without a price, but what will Phoenix's price be? I guess I won't know unless I go there.

As I begin to head toward where she wants me to be, I try to remember what is northeast of where I stand. Trees, of course, and I think there were a lot of boulders. No, the boulders were more east than north. Closing my eyes, I try to imagine what was northeast. It has to be something that I passed when I first headed out since I overlapped myself earlier in the night. What did I see after leaving the bloodbath?

Fields. That's right. There were patches of fields and open plains that I wouldn't walk through because I thought that maybe the ground was quicksand or something. They looked too nice and calm to be free of danger. I didn't stay in that area too long because of it. That would be a nice way to kill me off. I'm sure I'm boring them and Phoenix probably wants to get rid of me. Let the boy die in sand; I'm sure my district would love to see that.

My legs jolt to a stop as I appear at what could only be my destination. It's a large open field with little flowers around and tall grass that reaches my knees. In the coming dawn light, it gives it an air of security; that is until you peer into the middle of the field where a large building rests.

It looks like one of the abandoned factories at the end of the district that was once used to plan out the different devices used in the Dark Days. It was said that they were haunted because after the war ended, the Peacekeepers barged in, burned every blueprint and schematic inside and tortured and killed every person who ever worked in there. I liked going in there when I was a kid because everyone else was too afraid to follow me there.

This building isn't quite the same, but it feels like it is. There are windows at the very top of this building and it doesn't have the air ducts that we had. The walls are completely metal with a wooden base most likely so no one could try pushing the walls down. There are no windows I can try looking into and the only door I can see is the main one. Taking a deep breath, I take tentative steps toward the door.

The building reeks of danger and murder. Hell, on the door, it says, "slaughterhouse 5." My eyes move down to notice a tag on the handle. _Open Me. _As if I would make it that easy. Westley once told me not to do anything unless I know what I'm getting myself into. At this point all I know about this building is that the Gamemakers put it here.

Taking calculated steps around the building, I inspect any possible weaknesses. Of course, there are none. Seeing how the building is in the middle of the field, there is no way I can see inside through the windows unless I suddenly developed the ability to climb walls. I jab my spear into it a couple of times to see if I could possibly make a hole of some sort, but of course that doesn't work either. I also notice that there are no other exits. The only way in and out of this murderous tin can is through the main entrance.

Swallowing back my fear, I find myself at the door again, eying the word "slaughterhouse." Phoenix couldn't have been more obvious that there is a trap inside. The main question is whether that trap can kill me.

If I can look inside then I would feel better about going in. If only I could see what she wanted to offer me. I would give almost anything for a cheeseburger right now. Then I look at the spear in my hands. No. A Gamemaker wouldn't go through all of this trouble for a little food. She has a quarterstaff in there. Well, actually, I don't know what she has in there because I can't _see_ inside. I groan and find myself licking my lips as I think through any possible ways I could work around this.

The door is my only option. If perhaps I can jab the door open with my spear and look inside without actually going inside, then I can go in. Placing two hands on the stick, I pull back and smash it against the door. But it doesn't move. Hell, it doesn't even dent. Narrowing my eyes, I try again. Same result. Now this is getting ridiculous. I apply pressure against the door and try to push it open, but it wouldn't budge.

Then I notice the hinges on the outside. This entire time it was a pull door, not a push one. I slam my palm against my forehead. "You couldn't have put a pull tag on the door," I grumble.

To try to get past my stupidity, I attempt to pry off the screw that keeps the door to the hinges, but I can't do it without the proper tools. The only thing left is to _pull_ open the door.

I can feel my anger beginning to rise. She's toying with me. She knows that if I want whatever is inside, I have to open the door to get there. I release a bitter cry and punch the wall. Even opening the door a little bit can trigger the trap. Maybe there are mutts in there that would attack me and kill me or some kind of magnetic pull that would force me inside only to tear my body into tiny pieces. With a Gamemaker, it could be anything.

Why couldn't I just be super strong and tear down the building with my bare hands? That would show Phoenix. I smirk at the image of tearing apart this stupid building and using the pieces to kill every single Gamemaker, even the interns. What a twist that would be in the Hunger Games.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to look past my bitter anger. The question still remains: do I open the door or leave?

Everything inside me wants to open it, just so I can see inside. My curiosity is beyond its natural limit and it's only through my anger at Phoenix that I manage to restrain from tearing open that door and running inside.

Then I think of Westley. He would tell me to run as fast as I could in the other direction. I reach into my pocket and feel the smooth surface of the ocarina. I run my finger across the names for the thousandth time and imagine what they would all do in this situation. With the exception of Albaer, they would all stay away. Then I feel Faraday's name. I promised him I would to try my very hardest to win the Games. Is blindly running into this building fulfilling that promise?

I don't hold back my curses as I bitterly yell out into the sky. It's only the knowledge that there may be other tributes around that makes me stop. I know what I have to do, even if part of my brain tells the other half to shut up and go inside already. Picking myself up, I grab my things and walk away. I don't even want to look at that stupid building ever again.

When I get to the end of the field, the ground begins to shake. Part of me wonders if Phoenix is going to split the earth open and have me fall into the pit since she couldn't kill me with the building. As I struggle to catch my balance, I glance back at the building.

The walls, slowly, begin to tumble down and the roof crumbles into pieces. One by one, the walls fall, and I finally see what was inside. Phoenix put a fucking meat grinder inside of the building. A meat grinder! I could see what would have happened if I opened that door:

She would have had some kind of illusion or food to get me to go inside and from there, the machine would be turned on. I can see the mechanical arms that would wind around me and bring me to the plastic box where I would be smashed with a meat hammer repeatedly, though probably not with enough force to kill me. From there, my broken body would be lead inside of the grinder, where they would slowly have to cut up my body so that it would be able to properly grind. And if that didn't kill me, well, all that would be left would be to throw my limbs into the pit and slowly get my body to turn into mush. With the slowness of the Games thus far, I'm sure that Phoenix couldn't wait to see me get turned into pudding.

I couldn't help it. At the image of my body begins mangled and crushed, I throw up the contents of my stomach. When the sickness settles down, my anger flows back up. Phoenix is fucking insane. She wanted my family to watch me get torn apart like that. Granted, half of my family would probably like it, it still makes me sick that she would think this is amusing. My fingers curl around the spear and, with all of my force, I strike the tree next to me. Unfortunately, all that does is break my spear in half.

Great. I threw up whatever food I had, nearly died, and now broke whatever remnants I had of a weapon. This fucking arena is just perfect.

The sun is too high for me now and I look anxiously for a place to sleep. After that emotional morning, I can use some shut eye. Then there is the weapon problem that I have to try to work through. What do I have that I can kill with? My hands? If Phoenix has anything to say about that then no.

I find the spot with the boulders and try to situate them against a tree. It isn't easy because, well, they're boulders and they weight twenty times what I do. I barely manage to move one a couple of feet when I give up and start using the leaves and branches around me to create a blanket.

Then I see another parachute.

I groan, silently knowing that it has to be from Phoenix for me. Is she going to try to finish the job this time? Is she just going to blow me up and be done with it? Then I see the glint from whatever is attached. It's a knife. I go to the parachute and inspect it.

It is relatively long; the handle to the tip of the blade corresponds to my fingertips to my elbow. It is the sharpest blade I have ever seen, though I'm not sure if that even means anything since the sharpest blade I have ever seen are the butcher knives Westley and I would practice with. He thought that I needed an extra weapon to be familiar with, just in case I couldn't get my hands on a quarterstaff. It's strange that Phoenix gave me this though. Did she know about my training? Maybe Westley got the money to send it to me. But then why didn't he just send me a quarterstaff. I'm sure it's cheaper since very few tributes even know what a quarterstaff is.

Then I see the familiar handwriting on a note attached to the knife. My heart sinks a little bit as I read it.

_You failed to go in the slaughterhouse—a decision that would have cost your life in the end. Still it would have been nice to test out, but I can't have everything._

_A reward for your self-restraint and good decisions. Failure to follow my next instructions will result in a pound of your flesh. Which pound though? Your foot, your arm, your head?_

_Phoenix._

Phoenix is fucking insane! Trying to stop the mental image of the woman running after me to retrieve her pound of flesh, I toss the card into the dirt and untie my new prize. "Thanks for this, though," I mutter, knowing that she is listening to me. "Maybe next time you can tell me to kill myself instead. That would be a lot easier." I pause then realize that she might be taking me seriously. "That's a joke by the way."

She's probably laughing at me, but at this point, I could care less. I feel the knife cut through the air and smile at the whistle it brings. I twirl the handle in between my fingers and smile. Now I have just what I need to get the quarterstaff from the Cornucopia.


	58. She Will Make the Face of Heaven so Fine

**There will be no update on Thursday-the next update will be on Saturday and it will be a Gamemaker chapter.**

**My dog has been at the ER vet twice, and he's stayed two nights to have fluids. He should get to come home today. Prayers/thoughts appreciated. And without further ado...**

**The chapter title is a reference to Romeo and Juliet.**

* * *

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-browed night,

Give me my Romeo. And when I shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Act 3, Scene II

* * *

**Roulla Saney of District Four**

**Day Five by Jayfish**

* * *

**"Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage." (Bullet With Butterfly Wings, the Smashing Pumpkins)**

* * *

Where has the rain gone?

There was something cleansing about the never-ceasing water tumbling from the sky. I had gotten so used to the drip, drip, dripping that I'd ceased to notice. Now that it's gone, I can feel its absence, and I miss it somehow.

Night has just fallen, and I feel so cold. My jacket has only just dried off from the days of rain, but it still feels like it's weighing me down. I stare out into the fog, and for a moment I think that I can see things moving out there in the darkness. I blink hard and force myself to turn away.

Spirits are low and tensions are high. Glancing over to the group, it's obvious that something is wrong. All four of my allies are starving, and not for food. They want to kill. We've killed no one since the boy from Five, and that was several days ago. Unless you count the frightening ferret mutts (which none of us do), we've completely failed to end the lives of anything or anyone.

Failure is not a feeling I'm used to. Roulla Saney does not fail. On the rare occasion that my performances weren't up to standard, Mother would whip me into shape with words. Words are very powerful, it seems, and I am all too susceptible to their charms.

Sade yawns, arching her back and straining her arms towards the sky. "I'm tired," she announces. "Let's sleep." She looks at Canicus when she says it. He has been staring at the ground contemplatively, a lot like everyone else. No one has spoken for about an hour now. It's probably good that Sade said something.

"Alright," says Canicus. He sounds downtrodden, and like always there's the hungry tone mixed in that's impossible to ignore. "Admire, you're on guard duty."

"Typical," mutters Admire. She casts a look my way and rolls her eyes in Canicus' direction. I give her the barest hint of a smile and manage to get to my feet. The dynamic between Admire and me has changed. When she told us what had happened to her, I was filled with rage, all-consuming, all-powerful. I can't be sure that I will win, or even confident, but if I _do, _then I am going to find this Jovilios and make his life hell on earth.

I never thought of her as a victim. The idea that anyone could take advantage of Admire Blanchard in such a perverse way… I shudder briefly. _Sick, twisted man._

Yes, the way I look at Admire has changed. But that's not all. Admire is looking at me differently, too.

_"I've gone off men now."_

I try to pretend that I don't notice her looking at me, but I _do. _I would be a total hypocrite if I said that I didn't stare at her as well, but it's different. Admire is gorgeous, any way you spin it, and pleasing to the eye. Of course I look at her! But me, I'm nothing special. Bony, dirty from days without bathing, angular. If she has gone off men, and I really believe that she has, then looking at Sade would probably be more enjoyable than looking at me.

That isn't all she's done to me, either.

I shiver violently, closing my eyes. I have to remember. It's impossible to ignore, to forget. No matter how hard I try to push what happened out of my mind, it smolders every time I close my eyes.

I hardly remember the conversation we were having. She got me off to the side when the others were asleep, as she often does nowadays. She… teased me. Played with me...

_"I don't like girls." I squeak it like a pathetic, mewling kitten. It's so ridiculous, so fake. Who am I fooling?_

_No one, apparently. "I don't know who you're trying to convince honey, but I know you do." Admire grins. "It's okay, I don't mind. A kiss is a kiss, hmm?"_

_"You have a boyfriend." Well, I think she does._

_"I don't have anything. Especially not a boyfriend." I wince at the words. Of course, how could I say something like that? After what happened… I'm a fool._

_"You have friends," I gasp. "Like you and I?"_

_"But Roulla," Admire murmurs, leaning in. "I don't have friends." She has me by the shoulders, and she's coming closer. Her lips are mere millimeters from mine. "I have lovers."_

_Our lips meet—_

And thinking about the physical part of that particular kiss is not something I should be doing right now.

_It would be best if I don't think about this, _I tell myself. We've been going on as if the kiss didn't happen, but I know she'll bring it up again soon enough. Maybe she'll want more. And I have no idea what to do. No idea.

I should be setting up for rest. The other Careers have drifted apart and are throwing themselves on the ground, curling up into little balls. I consider lying on the ground where I am, but Admire has caught my eye. She grins, beckoning me with an elegant twist of her hand.

Of course I get to my feet immediately.

"Yes, Admire?" I ask, as I draw closer to her. She's perched on the ground with her legs drawn up into her heavy jacket. Her hair is wispy and as I get closer I realize that she's shivering.

"I'm cold," she says plaintively, and begins to unzip her jacket. "Can- can we share? Please?" Her jacket is half-off and she stares up at me with those huge eyes of hers.

I don't want her to freeze when she's doing the rest of us a favor. Besides, ever since I heard her tale, I can't stand to see her unhappy. It reminds me of what she's been through, the horror that I can only imagine. One can win, and only one, and I know this. But if I can alleviate some of Admire's pain, I'll take every opportunity to do it. She deserves that much from me, at the very least.

"Of course," I tell her, pulling off my own jacket. The cold air bites at me and I flop to the ground. Smoothly, Admire wraps her jacket around the both of us, pressing us together. I can feel her warmth against my side, and I close my eyes as she wraps the second jacket around us both.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her lips are very close to my good ear, and her hair tickles my cheek. "I feel much better now."

"It's a little thing," I tell her. "It doesn't matter."

Admire looks at me out of the corner of her eye. "It matters to me, Roulla," she says gravely. Abruptly, her arm shifts, pulling me closer. My head falls into the dip of her collarbone and her arm is circled around my shoulders. "Go to sleep," she says.

"Alright," I say, shifting until my position is just right. Our combined heat is just enough to ward off the icy tendrils of fog working their way into our camp. I'm more tired than I should be, and I almost don't notice when Admire begins to stroke me. Her touch is soothing, gentle, and flows over my arm and up my shoulder, to my cheek. There her hand lingers, each finger making a separate pattern against my flushed skin.

"Am I keeping you up?" she asks, sounding worried. "I'm sorry. I just—I couldn't resist."

I remember what happened with Yiri. I am an expert on not being able to resist.

"It—it's fine," I whisper. I think I know what we're leading up to, and my heart begins to pound. I don't want her to notice, so I stay very still and let her stroke my cheek. Her fingers work their way to the back of my head and begin to scratch through my hair. Yiri used to run her fingers through my hair like that. It's one of the most pleasurable sensations I'm aware of.

I really think she likes me. And that's the worst thing that could happen, because I don't think I like her.

No, not true. I _do _like Admire, but not like this. She's beautiful, incredible, but I barely know her and this isn't the time to be making these kinds of connections. But how can I break her heart the way Yiri broke mine? I can't. I just can't do it, not after that disgusting Capitol man broke it once already.

So I stay still, and I let her pet my hair.

Situated like this, with my eyes closed, I can imagine that Yiri is the one holding me. My breathing goes even and I find myself melting into her shoulder. She presses me against her chest. Her hair is soft and silky and I crave the feel of it against the nape of my neck.

_Yiri, Yiri, Yiri, _I think. _Yiri, why don't you love me? _My senses are shutting down, one by one, my thoughts becoming fuzzy and indistinct. I'm falling into the darkness and I don't want to wake up for a long time.

_This is insane, _I think, but I'm already asleep and it's too late to go back. _I'm dreaming. _I've never been aware of the fact before, but I know this is a dream because when I open my eyes, it's not Admire holding me. _Yiri, _I think, and my heart swells with happiness.

But when I turn to look at her, she's shaking her head. "Oh, Roulla," she says softly. "You know it can't be me."

_But it's just a dream, _I think. _Why can't I be happy, just for this one dream? _Maybe it's too much to ask for, seeing as I'm situated in the arena, but I want it desperately.

Yiri grins. "Of course you can be happy," she promises. "But not with me." Her skin begins to bubble, her hair begins to lighten. "I'll always be there for you," she says, "but not as Yiri. I've changed."

And then she isn't Yiri at all. It is Yirone who holds me firmly in her lap, Yirone who is petting my hair. "I _am _Yiri," she whispers, nudging my wounded ear with her nose and making me press deeper into her body. "But then again, I'm not." She presses her forehead into mine and looks at me with those beautiful not-eyes. "It's up to you to figure out the rest."

_It's up to me to figure out the rest._

Our eyes meet, and hers are glossy and black. She cranes her neck and our noses bump. Instinctively, and without pause to think about how I'm only dreaming, I tilt my head back and our lips press together.

Everything explodes in a starburst of color.

I realize without having to open my eyes that the dream is over. I can hear the rustle of clothing, and feel the hot flush of blood underneath my cheeks. Against my chest, another heart is thumping. _Thump, thump, thump. _It isn't mine.

I open my eyes. Admire's eyes are closed, and her face is passionate. Her lips remain firmly locked against mine. Her arms are around me, just keeping me from being squashed into the dirt. This is the third kiss I've had in my life, and going by the way it feels, the best.

But the emotions are all wrong. _I don't want this, _I think, and struggle to free myself. _But…Admire wants this. I'll break her if I fight. I don't want to break her._

She's already so broken. I feel as though I'm the one taking advantage of her, judging by the things she's been through. Maybe… _I need her at her best. She's my ally. This is a service to the group, _I think, and try to move my lips the way she's moving hers. _I will let her love me._

Admire takes a deep breath and pulls away. Her gaze is starry. "We've been avoiding each other," she whispers. Both of her hands have traveled to my jawline, forcing me to look at her. "Why? Are you scared, Roulla?"

There's no reason to lie. "Terrified," I mutter. She's trapped me with her gaze and I have nowhere else to look.

She pouts. "It's only kissing, sweetie," she says, and for a moment her voice is all condescension. But the tone melts away as she continues. "Please," she continues. "Don't end it now. Not here."

And there it is, my ultimatum. I can't do it. I can't turn my back on her, I can't let her wither. _I can't be Yiri._

I'm sure my mother has given me up for dead by now.

"Alright," I say. The jacket wrapping us together is no longer comfortable. It's constricting, and I feel horribly confined. Somehow, one of Admire's hands finds my own. She squeezes my fingers comfortingly, and I try not to grimace.

"I love you," Admire whispers. "I mean—damn it. I wasn't supposed to fall in love." She grins at me, all big eyes and excitement. "I know it's stupid. But I can't help it." She presses our foreheads together, and all I can think of us how soft Yiri's hair was in comparison. Our noses brush and her nostrils quiver, as though she's scenting the air. "You're the only one who understands," she tells me. Her voice is an icy whisper in the silence.

"Admire," I mutter. I have nothing else to say. I don't want her. I can't break her. There's no way out. Trapped, trapped. I don't want to kiss her; I don't want to kill her. What I _do _want to do is cry, but my eyes don't remember how.

She leans in again, breathing against my lips. "This is so stupid," she tells me, weaving the fingers of one of her hands through my hair. "So stupid."

This kiss is much less charged than the previous one. It's slower, and I give a muffled squeak when Admire's tongue snakes its way into my mouth. She breathes heavily and I try not to breathe at all.

After a time, she pulls away. Her lips tasted like cherries. She licks them and smiles at the way my eyes widen slightly. "So innocent," she says, tugging at the zipper of our jacket. "It's cute." One of her hands rests on my knee. It moves upwards a few inches until she's caressing my thigh.

"Admire!" I squeak, beet red. Allowing her to kiss me is one thing, but this—_this—_I can't let her do. To my relief, she only grins and rearranges her arms so that she's got me practically in her lap. She rests her cheek on the top of my head.

"Go to sleep, Roulla," she says. "I'm sorry I woke you up." She's still playing with the zipper, and now my lips are covered in her saliva and I'm not exactly in a sleeping sort of mood.

"Why do you like me?" Maybe it's a foolish question, but I'm curious and want to know the answer.

She stops playing with the zipper. "I told you already," she says, and her voice gets very sad. "You're the only one who understands." I can feel her breathing. "After… well, after I told everyone, no one believed me. Nobody but you. You were the only one that cared, Roulla."

"I wasn't," I protest. "Everyone in Panem cares, I'm sure. By now they've probably executed that disgusting man."

"Then maybe I like you because you're a girl," says Admire. "And I'm a girl, and we both like girls. And we're allies. And you're absolutely _delectable."_

"I'm not sure if it's wise to compare me to food…" I mumble, but fall silent when she presses a finger against my lips.

"See?" she says. "It's better when you don't talk. Just let things happen, sweetie. That's half the fun."

_That doesn't seem fun, _I think, but she still has me silent. I move my lips experimentally and she sighs, pulling her hand away.

"You really are in a chatty mood, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I suppose that the revelations of the evening were a bit much for me."

"Revelations?" Admire sounds confused. "What revelations? You already knew that I liked you."

"I suppose," I tell her.

"What do you want to talk about, then?" Admire asks. "Life back home? Got any secret girlfriend I should be jealous of?"

"No," I say, perhaps a bit _too _quickly. Admire doesn't seem to notice, but my cheeks are burning. "I am alone."

"Not anymore," she says firmly. "I've got you now." Maybe she meant for it to sound playful, but it seemed weirdly foreboding to me. I imagine Admire's lovely hands turning into the claws of a spider, her words the web that have strung me out.

Maybe I am a little bit too awake now. I have begun to frighten myself, which is never a good thing. "Who do you think will win this, Admire?" I whisper. This is a question I know I don't want to hear the answer to, but I'm on a morbid streak and I have to know.

"With my luck, Canicus," she says sourly.

"Please do not avoid the question," I insist.

"Oh, _Roulla," _she says. "Don't ruin this. Because you'll definitely ruin it if you keep this up." She grabs my cheeks and gives me a firm, brutal kiss. "_There. _Now be quiet."

I am about to do just that when I hear it.

It might be nothing. Some kind of animal, a twig falling to the ground by itself, the return of the rain. But I am a Career. We do not assume that it is nothing.

"Get up," I hiss. "I heard something."

Admire unzips the jacket fluidly and rises to her feet. With a nod in my direction, she moves to the left. Clearly she heard the sound too, and clearly she wants me to go the other way. I zip the jacket back up around myself and slip into the trees.

It's a sparse wood, but I lose Admire almost immediately. _I hope she'll be alright, _I think, although it would no doubt be easier if she was killed, right here, right now. _No. No, I don't want that._

Well. I have no idea what I want. No idea. It's pathetic.

I slink from tree to tree for a good five minutes and encounter nothing. _There's no one here, _I realize, and can't decide whether I'm disappointed or glad. I turn, fully prepared to head back to camp.

I find myself staring at Yirone instead.

I have no idea how she got past me. _She's stealthy, _I think. _It must be how she survived this long. _She's inching in the direction of the camp, and it's obvious that she doesn't know I'm here.

My knife is out before my heart has a chance to restart. I can raise my hand, position the blade, and kill Yirone before she even realizes her danger. The idea that I will actually do it is, of course, laughable. I can't kill her. How could I possibly kill her?

_Just this once, _I tell myself, trying to ignore the fact that it is an obvious lie. _Just this once, I will allow Yirone to live. It will be my only indulgence._

I make no effort to disguise my footsteps. Yirone whirls around, and I realize that she has a knife in her hand. It glints in the moonlight. Sudden fear constricts my airway, and then it feels strange to be afraid of someone who looks so beautiful, so innocent. I step forward and she raises her arm. I recognize the classic knife-throwing position, and I realize that in this close range I have absolutely no chance of dodging.

She throws. She throws, and as she does so her arm wobbles and the knife wobbles in midair. Instinctively, I twist my head and the blade buries itself in the tree to the right of my cheek.

She's blind, and I can use this. I gasp in pretend pain and fall to the ground, quietly slipping the knife from the tree. Two knives clutched in my hands, I labor and wheeze and, sure enough, she slips towards me, careful as a cat. But I notice the weird desperation that's making her body shiver, and I wonder what it happening to Yirone.

She is standing over me now. She pulls one fist back and prepares to strike. As her fist comes down, I throw myself to the side. She yelps as her knuckles connect with bark. I am behind her now, and I lunge, going for the throat.

I slam her against the trunk, hooking the crook of my elbow around her jaw. She struggles, kicks at my bony shins, but I ignore the pain. Eventually she squeezes her eyes shut and screws up her face. Waiting.

"I am not going to kill you," I whisper harshly. "Please do not ask me why. It is a difficult thing to explain."

She opens one blind eye and raises an eyebrow. My arm is still around her mouth and I can feel her moving her lips. "There is no time for an explanation," I tell her. "You must leave. We will kill you otherwise."

I pull away and take a step back. "Go," I whisper. "Turn around and move quietly. Admire will not notice you."

"Roulla," she says. Unexpected warmth blossoms in my chest. _She knows my name. _"You're kidding me," she continues. "I came here—I need…"

"Roulla!" It's a faint call, from far away, but it means that Admire is coming. My heart begins to pound, my palms become sticky.

"There is _no time," _I tell her firmly, taking her by the shoulders and spinning her. "Go. _Now." _I shove her, more harshly than I intended. But it is necessary. I fear that she will remain unless extreme measures are taken. I can't say that I know her, but she seems like the type loath to give up when her goals are in reach.

I don't have time to wait and watch her go. I must head off Admire if Yirone is to have any chance of escaping. I plunge into the trees, trying and failing to calm my racing heart.

I step around a skeletal branch and there is Admire, looking focused. "I heard someone shout," she says, glancing around. "No cannon, though."

"There will be no cannon," I tell her, looking at my shoes. "I fell."

Admire seems skeptical. "…you fell."

"The boots trip me on occasion," I mumble. "So, yes. I fell. I also shouted."

"I got that," says Admire. "So you fell over and yelled, and scared whatever it was away." She sighs, slapping her forehead with her palm. "Sometimes I wonder about you," she groans. "Go back to camp and keep watch. I'm not done here."

A thrill of fear travels up my spine. "What do you mean?"

She gives me the look she reserves for really idiotic things. "I mean _exactly _what I just said, Roulla."

"Maybe you should come back with me," I stammer. "I think whatever it is has gone."

Admire looks at me, narrowing her eyes. "Are you alright?" she asks. "You're sweating."

"I'm nervous," I say, which is true.

This seems to please her. "Don't worry about me," she says, pressing my nose gently. "Big Bad Admire can take care of the problem." She takes me by the shoulders and turns me about face. "Back to camp, now. Sit tight until I get back."

She'll know if I keep on protesting. Feeling my heart hammering in my ribcage, I begin to walk back in the direction of our camp. Surely Yirone would have had enough of a head start. In fact, it would be ridiculous if Admire was able to catch her now. I would not have rescued an idiot. _Yirone will be fine, _I reassure myself.

And then, just as the camp comes into view, I glance to the left and she's walking with me.

My eyes widen and I suck in a breath. The other Careers are clearly visible, still sleeping peacefully. "_Yirone," _I hiss, grabbing her forearm. "_Why are you still here?"_

She starts. "Yirone? What?"

"I was never informed of your given name," I whisper. "I was forced to make do." My eyes scan the darkened trees. "You did not listen to me."

"I told you," she says. "I need something."

"We don't _have _anything," I growl, exasperated. "You are risking the _both _of our lives now, Yirone. Please. Leave."

This time, I march her several paces back into the trees before melting away. I stand at the border of the tree line, daring her to come past me. _You will not be visiting the camp today, _I think. _Go. Get out of here._

She stares in my direction for several seconds before shuddering and turning away. I am fully prepared to watch her fade into the darkness.

Instead, I get to watch Admire appear with a grin on her face, like a wolf closing in on its prey.

Yirone jerks her head up. She's well aware that there is someone watching her. "What now?" she hisses, staring directly at Admire.

"Now?" Admire asks, and Yirone jerks, realizing that it isn't me she's talking to. "I kill you, of course!" Admire continues.

_I have Yirone's knife, _I think. _She stands no chance against Admire. She has to run._

But Yirone stumbles backwards, perhaps convinced that I can offer her some kind of salvation. I slip behind my tree and pray that Admire doesn't see me. But my ally is much too focused on the figure on the ground to notice the sound my knees make as they knock together.

I'm trembling. I'm at the brink of a precipice, and I'm afraid to let myself fall.

I poke my head around the tree. Admire is sitting on Yirone's chest. The knife flashes in the moonlight.

I have less than ten seconds to make this decision.

Ten seconds does not seem like a particularly long time. It _isn't _a long time, really. It is not enough time to rationalize the decision I am about to make, or even enough time to formulate words in my mind.

All I have time for is this: if there were no Games, no arena, no Careers. If there were no rapist Jovilios and no secret pills and no Victory. Which would it be? Who would I pick?

It makes my choice much, much simpler.

Admire begins to stab, and I throw myself on her.

She wasn't expecting it. She screams, and I realize with a sense of coming doom that the other Careers will be well and truly awake by now. And here we are, mere yards away from the camp. And here I am, having just tackled Admire to the ground.

She thrashes underneath me, and when she recognizes me her eyes narrow with hate. "_Roulla," _she snarls, and slashes at my face. I jump up, barely managing to avoid the blow. "CANICUS!" Admire screams. "JET! SADE! ROULLA'S TRYING TO KILL ME!"

I'm not. I'm really not. I just didn't want her to hurt Yirone.

But it's too late for reasoning. I've made my allegiance. And it wasn't Admire who I chose.

Yirone scrambles to her feet. "What the _hell's _going on?" she barks, and Admire lunges for her. I shoulder my former ally away, and she stabs in my direction. Her eyes are boiling over with raw, intense hatred. _I broke her heart, _I realize, _and I dashed her pride to the ground._

_She despises me, and I deserve nothing less._

I can hear footsteps, pounding towards us. Yirone hears it too, and glances nervously to the side. "Roulla," she warns.

"I _know," _I say, keeping my knife pointed at Admire. Her face is livid. I imagine that she rather wants to eviscerate me right now.

What have I done?

"I'm sorry," I whisper. My tongue feels frozen. Our eyes lock, and I hope that everything I meant for her to understand was translated in our shared glance.

But really, how can she possibly understand what I've done? She knows nothing of Yiri, and what happened. Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know.

So, predictably, Admire stabs at me again.

This one I only barely avoid. A shout to my left alerts me to the fact that Canicus has reached us. He glares at me when he notices that I've got a knife pointed at Admire and am standing next to the girl from Six, a supposed enemy. He knows. They all know.

"Run," I tell Yirone calmly, and we move.

I snatch for her hand as we dart forward. Her fingers are sticky with sweat (perhaps blood) and our palms cleave together. My eyes sting and I pant desperately. Behind us, the Careers are whooping. Yes, they are the Careers. I am no longer a Career. Or maybe I was never a Career from the beginning.

"Sheba says it's time!" Jet calls. I grit my teeth and squeeze Yirone's hand a little tighter. To my relief, she is just as fast as I am, perhaps even more so. "I'm going to cut you up!" Jet howls. "I'm going to pull off your ears and cut out your eyes!"

Somehow, the threats spur me on. I have absolutely no interest in slowing down enough for Jet to catch me. I remember the boy from Five's death and I gasp with fear. _Keep going. Don't slow down._

"Just give up!" Canicus yells. "You're not getting away!"

I don't think I want Canicus to catch me either. "Keep… going…" I tell Yirone, narrowing my eyes. Every so often I have to pull her out of the way of a tree, but for the most part she seems to sense them herself, through some process I don't understand. I feel as though we might be pulling ahead.

We splash into a shallow stream. In a spur of the moment decision, I jerk to the right and we follow the water. It's slippery, trying to keep our balance on slimy rocks, but I understand water much better than anyone else in the arena right now. That is a guarantee.

The water invigorates me. My limbs hum with energy and I'm moving ahead, practically dragging Yirone behind me. The sounds of pursuit have faded somewhat. I feel that Jet has fallen behind, because I no longer hear him laughing and mumbling to himself.

Well. At least if we're captured now, we might get the courtesy of a fast death.

Up ahead is a massive tree limb. "Jump!" I scream, and throw myself into the air. Not once do I release Yirone's hand. To my relief, she flings herself upward as well, clearing the limb. We both land, I rather painfully, and stagger forward. Within moments, we've regained our former pace.

I risk a glance behind, and the only pursuers left are Sade and Admire. Canicus must have been slowed down by the tree limb.

"_So _dead!" Sade shrieks. Perhaps Yirone and I could take just Admire and Sade, but I fear that if we stop and fight, the others will catch up. Despite the fact that I have trained extensively, I am no match for four angry Careers, even with an ally by my side.

To our right, up ahead, there is a fallen branch hanging over the path. "Get ready to duck," I mutter, and push Yirone in the direction of the branch. Gracefully, she bows her head. I am slower and it clips my forehead. It stings, but I blink until the pain is less defined.

There is a hollow smack and an expletive and I know that one of our pursuers has been taken down. Only one left. And I'm sure I know who it is.

"ROULLA!" The scream is pain-filled, rage-filled, and I know that at this point in time, all Admire wants is to see me dead. The idea that someone thirsts for my death is disturbing, but I don't have time to think about it because if I slow down, even a bit, I _will _die.

"Weave," I whisper, and we begin to duck back and forth, popping out from behind different trees. I can hear Admire panting behind us, and gradually the panting becomes less distinct. We keep on going. The noise fades away entirely. We don't even pause for breath.

Eventually it is only us breathing, only our boots snapping twigs. But we don't, can't stop. The fear that drives us is all-consuming and terrible. _Don't stop, _I think. My palm is pressed so firmly against Yirone's that I can't even tell where my hand ends and hers begin. _Run, run, run._

We burst out of the forest with twin gasps of horror. I take a wild glance behind. There is no one, and for a moment I consider stopping. But then I see something shift in the darkness far behind us, and the fear seizes me.

We keep on going.

We practically fall into a trench. I scrabble in the mud, losing Yirone's hand in the process. She stumbles to her feet and I follow moments later. Wordlessly, we continue onward. Yirone takes the lead and I follow as she runs doggedly through corridor after corridor. Our running pace has become a shambling crawl, but it is clear that neither of us wants to stop. The threat of slow, ugly death still looms over us like a shroud.

By the time we reach the barbed wire, I know we have outrun them. "Stop," I wheeze, and Yirone keeps stumbling forward. "_Stop," _I say, more insistently, and her feet grind into the mud. She turns to me. One of her cheeks is spattered with mud, and her black eyes are shimmering in the darkness.

I open my mouth to say something more and end up collapsing in the mud instead. I bring one trembling hand to my temple and press on it, hard. My head has begun to pound. Memories, thoughts and feelings all clamor for attention, and I haven't the slightest idea which is the most important to pay attention to. I have begun to shake violently, and I've bitten my lip so hard that I taste blood.

I am so vulnerable right now. Yirone could kick me in the nose, reclaim her weapons, and pin me to the ground with her knives while she cut me open. I would not have the strength to fend her off. But a moment later her body slumps to the ground next to mine, and I realize that she's just as drained as I am.

She doesn't trust me. That much is clear from the look she levels at me. But she might as well have some kind of faith in me. I threw away a membership in the alliance whose members _always _win. And I did it for her. I didn't have to.

She must be wondering why. I don't think I have it in me to explain. Certainly not now. At the moment, the only thing I'd like to concentrate on is my breathing. In, out. Fill my lungs with oxygen.

My head tips back and my hair mixes with the dirt on the trench wall. I exhale, blowing a sticky strand of hair out of my eyes. "Ahhh," I moan, my body finally realizing the pain. "Ahh."

Yirone is crawling towards me as best she can with joints that must ache beyond belief. "Roulla," she coughs. "What did you do?"

She sounds accusatory. I can't respond, and opt to stare at the rapidly darkening sky instead. I wonder what the audience makes of this development. My mother has probably locked herself in the house. I know she's disappointed. I know she's cursing me.

I can't think about her now. What about my father? What is he thinking?

I realize, with a certain conviction, that he's rooting for me. I don't think my father cares _who _my allies are, as long as I return home. This has never been about honor for him. This was never anything for him. I never knew what he thought of my training, of my inevitable Games experience.

And Mathem. What is Mathem thinking right now? He's probably pleased that I made the decision of the heart, not the head. He can probably figure out why I saved Yirone. He can be foolish, but at his crucial point in time I am quite sure that Mathem understands what is going on, and that he is solidly in my court.

I don't want to think about what Yiri is thinking.

I force myself to look at Yirone. "I don't know your name," I tell her. "I apologize."

"Londyn Aureole," she says, suspicion lacing her tone. "You saved me. Why?"

"I told you that I couldn't answer that," I mutter. "Suffice it to say that I had a change of heart, about my status as a Career, as the antagonist of the Games." It isn't really true, but it's similar to the truth.

"Okay." She's still suspicious. "So what are we now? Allies?"

"If you want to be," I say, holding her sightless gaze coolly. I'm fed up with subtlety and subterfuge. Londyn is sneaky and clever, and I don't care. I don't care about anything at this point. My heart hurts, I'm exhausted, and if she's going to kill me she might as well just do it.

"Here." I reach into my belt and toss her the knife.

She eyes my general direction with a kind of smile on her face. "Okay," she repeats. "You saved me, but you won't tell me why. You're willing to just lay there. You're putting your life in my hands and you don't really act like you care. Tell me, what happened to the Roulla I met in the Training Center? Are you her doppelgänger or something?"

"I might as well be," I admit, stretching in an attempt to loosen my muscles. "They say the Games change you. Consider me changed."

She crosses her legs and regards me. "Allies," she says suddenly. "If you're going to go all out to save me, I'd rather have you right next to me at all times." She grins, and her teeth gleam in the darkness.

"Allies," I agree, and glance around us. We're holed up in a trench with no food or water. Tomorrow we will undoubtedly vacate this place in favor of a better campsite. But I don't think either of us could stand if we tried.

"No point in a guard," I comment. "We couldn't fight anyone off."

"Yeah," says Londyn. She yawns noisily and thuds to her side. As she turns away from me, she mutters something. It's quiet and I'm not sure if I was meant to hear it. I think I was, though.

_Thank you, _she said. Thank you for saving me, I'd imagine.

"You're welcome," I whisper, over her even breathing, and I try not to think about just how doomed I am.


	59. Exodus

I am so sorry this is late, totally my fault. Like seriously. I've been in a funk, I don't really want to talk about it—just that I apologize and some things are going on in my life that left my muse withering like a draki in the desert (maybe you know that reference?).

Anyways, it's storming her. Raining for days, and finally I forced myself through this misery—through this cold and everything that's going on to finish this for you guys. You should have had it long ago. But I hope that the content is well worth the wait.

Also, my dog is fine. Two emergency visits, and two days staying at the vet's (500 dollars all told) and he's better.

So anyways, the update will hopefully be Thursday or Sat. I'm not sure which. I'm not the only one struggling with some real life things right now.

Don't give up on us, we aren't going anywhere.

Much Love,

Phoenix and the "intern"

* * *

**Tryouts will begin for "Hello Darkness, My Old Friend", the 26th Annual Hunger Games on March 8th, 2013. Try-outs will run for approximately two to three weeks. A forum link will appear on March 8 where you can submit tributes. Get ready for a very dark ride.**

* * *

**_Phoenix Snow_**

**_Head Gamemaker_**

**_By Phoenix Refrain_**

* * *

_And thus I clothe my naked villainy_

_With old odd ends stolen forth from holy writ_

_And seem a saint when most I play the devil._  
_[Shakespeare's Richard III, Act I Scene 3]_

* * *

Coriolanus pulls up from the floor and stands beside me beaming. "That's my beautiful boy!" I cry out and pull him up to me as he giggles wildly. Before long, my little man will be walking around. He stands on his own a lot, but he hasn't felt the need or urge to walk forward yet.

I kiss his chubby cheeks as he tangles his hands in my hair. I've never loved anything in my life other than Belles, and it seems so odd to have this little mini version of myself walking around. It reminds me of the first time I held Belles when I was just a child myself—but I knew then that I loved her.

There's a knock at the door, and I call almost warmly, "Come in."

The door opens and one of the interns—Xander—stands there looking a bit nervous. "They're here," he clears his throat.

"Show them in," I scoop up Coriolanus and hand him to Alex. "Is Belles here?"

He looks awkward holding Coriolanus, unsure of himself. "She is. I'll make sure she knows."

"Momma," Coriolanus wrinkles his forehead. "Bye-bye?" He looks at me with a frown.

"Yes, momma go bye-bye." I kiss him and he smiles for me as Alex whisks him away.

Belles comes into the room only moment before the two muddy figures come in with another intern. The door closes behind them and they stand there dripping onto the lush beige carpet. "Names," Belles asks as she sits down beside me. "Take off your coats so we can see you better."

The taller figure takes off his coat, and drops it on the floor after Belles nods for him to. "I'm Aiden," he says.

The girl is smaller, much smaller—not quite five foot tall. "Emma," she says her voice shaking a little.

Belles looks at them both intently, "Two days ago, you were pulled from the guard towers in the arena along with the rest of the survivors." The girl shifts uncomfortably. There were thirty-two out of seventy left." She pauses for a moment, crossing her legs and taking off one of her earrings.

"You two are the only ones left," I finish.

"What?" The boy says a bit confused. "You just said there were thirty-two of us."

"Were," the girl says. "They killed them."

"Very good," Belles smiles. "All of them failed at their task. What was your task Aiden?"

"Shoot the tributes," he says slowly. "I shot Sade of my district."

"And you?" I ask the girl.

"I shot the girl from nine. I couldn't find someone from my district."

"Eight?" I ask, though I already know. I take a sip from the tea on my desk.

"Yes," she shifts again.

"Well, you two were the only ones who actually did more than graze someone. Initially all of you were supposed to die, but faithful service is something that we reward," Belles smiles.

"But I'm afraid there's only room for one of you here," I say. The realization dawns in Aiden's eyes, but he's too slow. Emma brings her arm around holding the heavy paperweight on my desk. There's a gush of blood as he goes down, a loud moan from his throat.

Her eyes are frantic as she looks at me calmly sipping the tea. Her hands skim over the desk frantically, knocking things off until her hand grapples with the letter opener. She looks at me again, "Finish him if you want to live."

There's no more doubt or hesitation as she drives the letter opener into his heart. The beige floor streaks with mud and blood. She's kneeling there over him panting, and she plunges the knife into him again and again.

I stand up, and grab her arm before it can go down again. "That's enough," I chide. "He's dead."

"I thought for sure Aiden would do her in," Belles smirks.

"No," I pull the letter opener from her grasp easily. "Always bet on the mouse. Did you know that a mouse will chew off its tail to escape a trap?"

Emma shakes her head, "I didn't know."

"Tell me why do you want to live so badly?" I push brown mud caked hair from her face.

"Because I don't want to die," she says simply.

"And how far are you willing to take that?" Belles questions her.

Emma looks down at Aiden for a moment, "I'll kill for it." Her voice is a whisper.

Emmaline Grace, orphan of District Eight. Age fifteen, no training at all. No one to miss her back home. She'll be counted among the ones who left for "guard duty" and never came home.

I run my fingers through her hair again, "Little mouse." Her eyes glance up at me nervously. I reach onto my desk and grab a key from the desk. "Down the hall is a shower and a change of clothes. Tell Alex to send in Meeg," I shoo her out the door.

I wipe my hand on a towel and sit back down. Belles looks tired as she leans back in the chair. "Well, you won that bet. How did you know she would do it?"

"She reminded me of ourselves," I smile serenely.

"I don't see it," Belles murmurs taking my tea and taking a sip.

We sit in silence and I think of all the things have happened over the past few days.

_Belles comes home, her cheeks flushed. I've been waiting all night for her—worried._

"_I've done it," she says. There' a smile playing on her lips._

"_Let me see," I put the cup of hot chocolate down and walk towards her as she holds out her hand. A huge diamond weigh heavy on her finger. I touch her cold hands and think of my own engagement years ago. The tender face of Vesperus looking up at me as he got down on bended knee—the smile, I didn't have to fake because I was happy he asked, though for different reasons than he hoped. Not love, but opportunity._

_She looks at me, bringing me out of my reverie. "Aren't you happy?"_

"_Yes, of course," I flash a brittle smile._

_She tilts my chin up so that I look into her eyes, "This is all that we've planned for years. You should be happy!" Her voice is impassioned, hurt._

_I tell her the truth, "I want better for you."_

"_And this is what I want," she looks at me in earnest. "He should have been my father too. Finn should never have sent him there. He shouldn't have been there that day, and he shouldn't have died. I want this," her voice is feverish. "Marrying Evered Finn is what I want. It's a way to make them pay." She grips my hands tighter, "I thought you'd be pleased." Her voice is crinkly with tears._

"_I am," I pull her close to me. "I just worry for you. You and Coriolanus are the best things to happen to me." I hold her close for a moment, unwilling to let her go. I clench my teeth and then smile, "Let's go talk."_

_She lifts my cup and takes a sip as we walk upstairs. I check on Coriolanus for a moment, watching him sleep peacefully in the room beside mine. Belles sits on the edge of my bed, pulling the pins from her hair. She reminds me of a child playing dress up, but she's no child._

_I crawl up in bed behind her and start removing the pins, letting her hair cascade down, then taking up the brush to stroke her hair. Her voice begins, "He proposed to me in the gardens. There were lilies everywhere," she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I told him I hated lilies and he asked what would I plant if I was the lady of the President's Mansion. And I told him, I'd plant thousands of roses. Pinks, yellows, and hybrids but especially red and white roses. He smiled and said he'd order them. I told him but, I don't live here. And he asked me if I'd like to—to live there and be his wife. I said yes, of course."_

"_And he doesn't suspect, does he?"_

_The lilt in her voice is happy, "President Finn—he wants me to call him 'Dad'-has been feeling a bit unwell. His trusted doctor has told him it's cancer, that he has very little time."_

"_With all that radiation you've been slipping him at tea, it shouldn't be long." I put down the brush and lean back on the bed, Belles lies beside me and we look up at the ceiling. "You've been careful not to handle it too much?"_

"_I know how to poison, sister. We cut our teeth on it," she looks over at me. "How'd you convince the doctor not to be suspicious of how quickly he got sick?"_

"_He found it easy to believe after a night or two," I laugh and she laughs too._

"_Will he stay quiet though?"_

"_Yes, he's been in my pocket for years. He's loved me since I first made a deal with him eight years ago."_

"_And if he slips up, we'll take care of him."_

"_Yes, but he won't," I trace the lines of her palm._

"_How can you be sure?"_

"_He loves me as no other man has loved me. He know me and he does not care. He would die for me," I smirk._

"_Do you feel for him?" She asks with curiosity._

"_I feel..." I search for the word. "I feel fond of him, he is useful and he is kind. But I do not love him and he does not care."_

I look over at Belles, who's playing with her ring absently. "She would do anything to live, does that not remind you of us?"

"I suppose so," she smiles. She puts down the cup of tea. "He's announcing our engagement tonight. We're to be wed in three months."

"And then you'll be the wife of the President," I smile coyly as she smirks back at me.

"I have to meet him for lunch, but I'll be there for the announcement."

"Good, you wouldn't want to miss this."

"It's been all I could think about," she shuts the door behind her.

Only a second later, there's a knock. "Come in," I stack the papers neatly on my desk and look up.

Meeg is standing there, "You needed me?"

"Clean up," I point at the floor. "Then take the girl to be made over. Natural, not too embellished. We don't want her standing out, just to fit in a bit more. Then bring her back to me."

Meeg nods as she lifts up the body, surprisingly strong. "Yes, Gamemaker Phoenix." She pauses, "I wanted to know if I and some of the other gamemakers can bring you some ideas for next games." Her voice shakes slightly.

"Ask again when you sound sure of yourself."

She steels herself up, "Will you look at my plans, Gamemaker Snow?"

"And what about the others, your friends?"

For a moment, she looks uncertain and then squares her shoulders. "Screw them, they can ask themselves."

"Leave them on my desk," I sweep past her and out of the room. People snap back to work as I walk around the center, checking the levels of tributes vitals as I go. I stop by Gamemaker Grayz's computer. "Bring up all their stats," he presses a few buttons and all their stats come up.

Most of them have slightly elevated heart rates, but Lucian's beats slowly and methodically completely at ease. But there are two other heartbeats that nearly race—temperatures spiked. "Infection," Grayz's says matter-of-factly.

"How long can they last?"

"If they're not found, and with the coming conditions—five days, six days maybe depending on how hard they fight."

I drum my fingers on the desk, "Keep a watch on them. We don't want either of them dying too soon. It may be necessary to send them something to guarantee they get through the next few days."

"Affirmative," he says. "I'll report to you immediately with any changes.

"Well done," I smile. "There may be a promotion for you yet."

Gamemaker Leo brushes back my hair and helps me adjust my trim Gamemaker uniform. My hair is swept back in a ponytail, typical of the gamemakers with long hair. I adjust my scarlet lipstick and feel the rush of adrenaline tingling in my system. The air is cool as I step outside the building, my boots making a distinct noise against the cement. Belles appears beside my side out of nowhere as I adjust the microphone.

A screen adjusts focusing in on each tributes face. For a moment, I look at them and embrace what will come as devastation to them. I begin to speak and each face in the arena turns toward the sky to hear my announcement.

"Long ago, there was a book that was read by many and believed. In this year's games some of you have seen the effects of it. The belly of a whale, riders of an apocolypse...All of those were in this book. And now, I bring to you a change in the games—heed the words and know that is it is by the kindness of the Capitol only that you do not all die, that one of you is allowed to live—that all of your Districts are allowed to live.

" I could have stretched forth My hand and stricken you and your people with pestilence, and you would have been effaced from the earth. Nevertheless I have spared you for this purpose: in order to show you My power and in order that My fame may resound throughout the world. "

Some recognition comes on the reporters' faces, and Lucian's. I had expected him to know. There were flickers on other faces, but not full knowledge. "Some of you historians know that I'm speaking of the ten plagues of Egypt. And they shall now befall our tributes."

Fear spread across their faces, not knowing what these plagues mean. But Lucian had taken off running the few yards to the water, his other horsemen yelling behind him. He curses loudly as the others stand beside him in terror as the pure clear water turns crimson. He dips his hand in and lifts it, touching his tongue tenatively to it. "Blood," he spits out while wiping his hand on his pants.

He pull out his make-shift water holder and pours some on his hand—crimson splays between his fingers. Curses fill the arena, the Careers have themselves a little episode of fury. Atalanta speaks, too soon-"At least, we have the rain."

She turns her face up to the sky to catch a few drops to slake her thirst. Crimson spills down her throat and she chokes, spitting it out. "There's no fresh water," Lucian stands. "And the worse is yet to come."

It's like watching my own personal soap opera. I watch as they take in the effects of what is happening. The water stays its crimson hue, and one by one all the life of the river floats to the surface. The best part—no one can eat it for fear of contamination.

The hours drag by, but it might as well be days. Their throats are parched and the sky is absolutely clear. It's the first day of sun in the arena. I wonder if they had forgotten what it looked like? If now they are cursing it as their parched lips ached for water to soothe their dry throats?

The sun bakes out the earth; the mud cakes and dries. They each look miserable. They think they've had enough…but they've had nothing yet.

I signal the change, and thunder rumbles in the sky. The tributes, all but Lucian, look up with expectation and shouts of happiness. They turn their faces heavenward to catch the drops that fall. The rain pours from the heavens like tears of blood. The blood is wet and cold, nearly congealed as it falls in their throats. Most of them sputter, Admire panics a little gagging it up, but Jett swallows it.

I point to one of the gamemakers and tell them to zoom in as he brings his head down. The blood is smeared on his teeth as he smiles letting out a coarse moan, "Sheba…"

After another fifteen minutes of cold congealed blood, I stop it. The sun comes out hotter than ever, baking the blood on to them. Their noses wrinkle in disgust as it basically rots on their skin.

* * *

I glance up at the clock and move swiftly from my office. It's time for the next plague. A new one begins every seven hours according to my current schedule. I move out to the main room and the girl waits there—Emmaline.

She's dressed in a simple uniform of a gamemaker, the bracelet she was given glitters in the lights. It's how we'll track her, make sure of her movements and hear her every movement should we so desire. Her hair is cut short, styled in a short Mohawk. Her make-up is more the Capitol style.

"Give me your hand," I say to her. She obliges, and I grip it hard. I can feel the imprint of the Phoenix on her hand—invisible to the naked eye, but enough of a raised pattern that you can feel it if you're looking for it—on her left hand, the one she will never be shaking with.

I let go of her, and grip Alex's shoulder hard. "Good work, now press the button."

His hand hits it sharply without hesitation.

The careers move stealthily through the forest, on the scent of some trail. I can see Roulla and Londyn hurrying hand through hand through the forest. They share whispered words. I'd had such hope for the girl…If anything, she'd sealed her fate. After all, between the two of them I knew who would come out the winner—I'd given her my blades. Roulla was just a butterfly to be pinned, her wings pulled off.

Good, the malicious smile pulls at my face.

There's a scream. The camera focuses on Admire as she screams, doing an odd sort of dance around. She drops her blade and screams in fury as she grabs at her clothes. She's gasping and almost in tears with the tiny frog falls out of her shirt.

Canicus laughs loudly, "Scared of a little frog Mira?"

No truer words spoken as they fall from nowhere onto them. The sick splats of the frogs as they hit the dirt, they hit the bodies. The crazy scrambling hopping, the incessant croaking of the little creatures as they move around. Admire hates them, the way she moves away from them—but it's pointless, they are everywhere.

Jonas, however, uses his brains. It doesn't take him long to kill a few of the frogs and start a low fire. He roasts them on sticks and then eats them, filling himself like most of the tributes have not for a long time.

Lucian and his horseman do the same. Erik is unfazed. It is said that District Eleven used to treat such food as a delicacy. Maybe he's even tasted it before? They both certainly handle it better than the girls.

One by one, almost all of the tributes realize that frogs mean a food source. The gush of their fluids something to quell the aching thirst in their bodies and to keep them from dehydrating. The looks on their faces as they bite into the little frog bodies as their water filled bellies gush into the back of their mouth. All of them raised in brackish water, we made sure of it.

Sean Armani kills a frog, his face paling. "Better than chicken," I smile knowing exactly what he means by that. I'd seen the videos of Aleah teaching him to kill. Plans in the Armani compartment are coming along quite nicely. We've made it clear to her to obey us or else Sean would pay the price.

For a moment, I'm saddened by his state. His body is infected, struggling—Aleah could manage the funds though. To have him here in the Capitol as a matching set would be good business. The softer, kinder sibling has warmed some hearts even mine. He was always meant to live in her shadow, and he may never make it out. Unlike his sister, he would make the perfect Victor.

But even now, I can seem him slipping away from my reach, away from my control. But his fate is tied up in Aleah's hands alone, I have promised myself that I won't interfere with his story, even though I desire to. The precautions have been taken, I have prepared for whatever may happen with him.

But they are tributes, pawns to move in our powerplay and nothing else.

* * *

I smile brightly as I address the crowd at the President's Mansion, "It's hard to believe that my baby sister is engaged," I smile at her blushing against Evered, his father sits heavily in a chair. His make-up is thick to cover up how ill he is.

"But no one can doubt how much they love each other," I look at them and place a wistiful expression on my face letting the corner of my lips quiver. "It's been a long time since anyone looked at me that way." I pause, "Let's toast to their eternal happiness and that love really does make the world go round."

The clink of glasses hit together, and everyone toasts their union. I hold my sister close, kiss her forehead. "You're sure of this?"

"Why do you keep asking her?" Evered laughs.

"I'm her sister, I'm supposed to," I shoot back.

"I'm sure," she kisses me on my cheek. "Don't worry about me so much Phe." She runs her hand alongside my face. "Are you sure you have to leave though, so soon?"

"Yes, I have to go back. It'll be time for the new plague soon, and I want to make sure things are perfect and put Coriolanus to bed."

"And you're sure you don't need me?" She looks at me in concern.

"No, you enjoy your time."

I move away from them through the crowd, and my smile slips away as I move into the street. I close my eyes as I walk, listening for the soft bootsteps that should be somewhere behind me—but I don't hear them, though I can feel her presence.

The walk takes some time, but it relaxes me. The fog creeps across the street, and everything takes on this eerie feel like something is coming, creeping on cat feet in the fog. I shudder a little as I fiddle with the keys in my lock.

The door slides open easily and I drop the keys onto the table and wait. Five minutes later, the door creaks open and Emmaline walks in. "You're good, I didn't even hear you."

"Thank you," she looks at me earnestly.

"You understand the rules, right?"

"I do," she pulls the pistol from her pocket. "If there's a threat, I neutralize it by whatever means necessary and you'll keep your promise to me."

"I always keep my promises," I turn and leave her there in the hall as she takes off her coat. I make my way up the stairs and my Avox servant meets me at the top of the stairs with Coriolanus. He reaches for me sleepily, and I cradle him to me. "Mommy has missed you so."

The Avox tugs on my arm and I walk into Coriolanus room where she follows behind. She closes the door softly and rushes over to me. "I don't like that girl," her brows furrow.

Delia's always been a good sense of character. "Why?"

"I don't like her being here, how do you know she's safe?"

My fingers glide along her arm, "How did I know you were safe? I risked a lot to have your tongue spared."

"And have I not served you everyday since then for seven years? Kept the papers for Coriolanus and myself to leave if something happened to you? Remembered a whole other life for his sake? Have I not earned your loyalty?" She whispers urgently, searching my eyes. "I have killed for you."

"I trust you with Coriolanus, which is more than my own life. But trust me, the girl will remain faithful, she has something she doesn't want to lose. She won't know about you, not ever."

"And you know if things go wrong," I pause.

"I know," she looks at me and touches my face. "What are you so afraid of?"

I don't know what to say at first, I want to tell her off but we are too close for that. "Revenge isn't...safe. It's a dangerous game. My safety isn't important, but his and Belle's...They won't pay for my sins."

"Okay," she says as she reaches into her pocket and takes out a mouth piece. It's designed to cover he lower mouth, make her look tongueless when she's around others—help her to have that awkward swallowing but lets her keep her voice so that if she has to run she'll blend in.

I kiss Coriolanus goodnight and put him to bed, before heading back out again. Emmaline has already ghosted out ahead of me. I have only a few minutes by the time I arrive at the gamemaker's hub.

I give a sign and Xander begins the next plague. This one is more microscopic, but sooner felt. Maeve begins to scratch her head. Then she begins to scratch more frantically. Lucian gives her this odd measured look, and his hand start to move to his head and then he stops. He knows what's happening. "Lice," he spits.

Atlanta starts scratching at the word of it, but before long they're all scratching.

Londyn asks Roulla, "Would it be better if we cut off our hair?" She pulled up the long blonde tendrils, the nape of her neck bare.

Roulla's face blushes and she looks at Londyn the way that no one should in the arena, "No." Her voice is a little breathless, "It wouldn't do any good since we have nothing to treat it with."

"Oh," Londyn drops her hair back down trying not to scratch. I just watch the butterfly ensnaring herself more and more into the spiderweb. Pretty soon, she won't even struggle at all.

* * *

It's four AM when I awake. I untangle myself from his arms, but he grips me to him tighter. His lips linger on my neck. "You need to leave," I tell him.

"I wish I could stay with you," he plants a line of kisses down my collarbone.

"Then everyone would know you're covering for us. It's not safe for you to come here, not now." I pulled on my uniform quickly as he got out of bed to follow me.

"I'll take the secret entrance," he looks at me warmly. "I'll see you when it's over, right?"

"Right Kevlar, when it's over." But he knows I only mean when we're alone, all alone—but he's content enough with that.

He calls these moments stolen, but sometimes I feel like it's more than that—a stolen life. But it's useless to ponder such things, the what-if's, the whys...Sometimes, I almost give up this whole plan. It would be so easy to walk away from...but in the end, I always stay. I always choose this.

My eyes feel bleary, tired when I get there. Today, I'll be staying all day long watching them. But now, it's five AM, time to wake them for the next plague. I sip my cup of hot coffee as it begins with another push of the button from Xander.

The angry buzzing wakes up Damian, foolishly asleep besides Anya. His arm is halfway around her waist, something he hasn't dared to do while he's awake. But as the flies begin to buzz around the rotted blood on their clothes, his face starts to twitch. He wakes up, confused for a moment looking down at Anya—something inscrutable on his face.

As he sits there, he holds out his hand and a fly lands within it. He closes his hand fast, and crushes the little creature. But even he must know that there is no way he can do that to the hundreds of thousands, even millions of them buzzing around the arena.

Some of the tributes fare well, but most of them are experiencing dehydration. Most of them have become irritated, and their muscles begin to cramp. "Send the parachutes," I tell Gamemaker Leo. She deploys the parachutes, and one by one they float down to the tributes.

By now, they're a little desensitized to them, too tired to grab at them—and some too angry at first. But as they notice that each parachute is labeled, and each parachute carries a bottle of water, they are scrambling like mad.

Jett grabs a hold of Admire's bottle, wrenching it from her reach. She lets out a yell, but before she can fight him for it, he screams in rage dropping it. Where his hand touched the bottle, there are livid line of welts. We don't want anyone to actually die quite yet, so it's essential that they do practice the art of sharing. Dying of thirst isn't exciting.

He curses while he tends to his hand, and she grabs it up. Each of them begin to drink the water down, some slowly and some very quickly almost choking on him. However, they each discover that as the bottle empties, it disentegrates into silt between their fingers.

The noon sun is hot as Pipper sits there sifting the silt between her fingers. There's an angry look on her face. I watch her, wondering exactly what she's thinking. But I think I know that look, it's her realization that she was blamed all along for something she didn't do. She bore the burden for killing someone, and it wasn't her fault.

She looks up at the sky, with angry eyes. I can see them welling with tears. Some deep emotional struggle goes on beneath the surface and she's fighting so hard against it. Her heart beat accelerates, her eyes dilate.

Her hands open and close. She's thinking about revenge, she's thinking of why she was sent here. They believed her a killer, maybe…she should show them one. Could it be that? Could it be that she realizes it's useless to try to fight against the system? It's useless to think that she can get by without killing? She's thought she'd killed someone for awhile. What difference would it make for her to actually kill someone?

She gets up just as the next plague hits.

Brennadon stands up, hearing the sounds of creatures. They trip and fall into the trenches where he's hiding, but he runs toward one eager for meat when he sees it. The wounded creatures lay at the bottom of the trenches struggling to move, hunks of their flesh eaten away with bacteria and sores.

His nose wrinkles, realizing that the meat isn't even good to eat. He could kill them but there would be no point—well, except the obvious to end their suffering.

He looks a bit defeated as he sits back down, they're crying and neighing fills his ears but he seems deaf to their suffereing-perhaps because he can only hear his own.

The day carries on as most of them discover this. They're starving, beginning to panic a little. Another set of parachutes sift down to the ground as they pick them up-careful to only touch their own. Each parachute gives them a meal bar. Disgusting, but packed with nutrients to make them survive this.

They're not supposed to enjoy it.

Tempers flare in the career camp, Sade and Jett come close to killing each other but Canicus steps in, reminding them that they have to stay together still-that who knows what's coming next.

* * *

I adjust my hair, ready to leave as soon as the next plague is deployed. Admire notices it first, of course. The itching, the raised welts that start appearing over all the tributes. Already coated in blood, they look grotesque, the bumps forming on their body-itching and oozing pus. It's evident that they're everywhere-no position sitting or standing is comfortable. There is no relief.

Admire breaks into little sobs for a few moments, until Canicus goads her. "Now everyone can see what you really look like..."

For a moment, tempers flare and they're toe to toe but something snaps in her. The snarl on her face twists into a smile as she steps backwards, "Oh Can, just you wait..."

I leave them to their childish bickering as I make my way to the mansion. Belles greets me as soon as I go in. She smiles at me all happy and bright, and leads me arm in arm down the hallway.

My heart races as we get closer, the heavy breathing is audible. It's like the sound of crackling and pain...I try to keep my face composed in neat lines of concern as Belles soothes hers into the same. But the pressure of her hand belies her feverish excitement.

When we walk into the room, it's nearly empty except for Evered seated beside his father's bedside. President Finn lays there pale, and almost sheer looking. His skin almost transparent, each breath a gasp.

Evered's face is pained as he rubs an ice chip across his father's parched lips. It's a touching gesture, something you do to ease the one you love's discomfort.

Belles lets go of my hand, "Evered." She kisses his temple and he leans heavily into her. "Let's have a little walk, you need some air."

"I can't...leave him," his voice chokes like that of a young boy.

"I'll stay with him," I offer.

Evered's eyes look up into mine with kindness, "But-"

"Go," President Finn says. "I'll. Be. Ok." He rasps out each word heavily.

Reluctantly Evered gets up and Belles leads him out of the room, talking lightly of the flowers that have arrived. Telling him a nice walk in the night air will refresh him.

I am alone in the room with President Finn.

Slowly, I cross the room and wet the damp cloth in the bowl and wring it out. It reminds me of when Belle's was sixteen and had a high fever. I sat by her bed all night, changing out cool cloths for her. My hands glide gently over his sallow skin and brush at his forehead and then his neck-cooling the heated skin while I hum.

His breath comes in short bursts, raspy and painful. His eyes barely open, struggling to hold on. I dip the cloth again and move it over his hot skin. "Finn," his eyes blink open as I use his last name.

My lips part slightly as I begin to speak as I rub an ice chip across his parched lip. "I wonder if you remember our father?" I wring out the cloth again and wipe across his neck.

"Not the man my mother married, no not that one." His eyes are open and alert, as he watches me. "No, the man before that-the one you sent to the Districts. The one you didn't mean to come back?"

Feebly he tries to move his hands, but I brush them away and wipe them down with the cloth. "I thought so." I pause, fingering a piece of ice. "You probably didn't think I'd ever find out...never suspect that you wanted him out of the way." I look him in the eyes. His fear is rising. "I don't know why you wanted him dead, but I know that you did...and you had it done. Now is the time to barter with me. Try to explain your reasons, ask me to spare you or something."

I cup up a handful of ice, "By now you know what's happening." Poison, the word hangs in the air unsaid. He tries to speak, but no words come out. "You're dying, Finn...and I'm being a good little daughter-in-law. Helping you ease out of this world."

His eyes flash as my hand moves dumping the hand full of ice in his mouth. He struggles against it, unable to swallow it-choking on it. His already ragged breaths become even shorter-but the ice doesn't melt fast enough. Just a few pieces of ice in his fragile state...just a little for him to choke on.

I watch as he struggles, tries to reach for my hands tries to clear his throat as his eyes bug out. But he can't do it. He's too weak. I lean very close as his breath almost ceases. "And now your son is ours," I smile.

I don't know if he heard me. He's already gone. The ice melts quickly and flows down his throat. My fingers move over his eyes and close them.

President Finn is dead.

It had been easy to fake the tears and break the news to Evered and Belles when they came back. She had seen Evered crumple into a chair, and Belles had consoled him as he asked in a choked voice, "Was it easy?"

"Just like falling asleep," I told him.

In truth, it was hell. His last minutes struggling for breath and dying, choking on a pieces of ice knowing that I knew he was responsible for my father's death.

I had stayed for a few hours, the announcement would be made in the morning-giving Evered some time to grieve alone before the whole world knew of it, before he was President.

By the time I got back to Control it was only minutes away from our next plague. My eyes follow the last ticks of the clock, and a bell chimes loudly once, then twice.

"Trigger them," I say as I sit down heavily.

My voice feels distant as I recite the ancient text, "And Moses stretched forth his rod toward heaven: and the Lord sent thunder and hail, and the fire ran along upon the ground; and the Lord rained hail upon the land of Egypt.

"So there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as there was none like it in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation.

"And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast," my voice falls silent as Xander delivers me a drink.

The heavens open up and thunder rumbles low and ominious. Every pair of eyes looks up in the arena, they know the pattern by now-every seven hours. Their blemished and blotched skin festers and oozes. Some of them have scratched open the boils, causing infection to set in.

As the sky rumbles, it shakes the earth. The realization that this is no regular thunderstorm hits them just as the first bit of hail or maybe it's brimstone hits the earth. They scatter, screaming and crying out.

Roulla is grazed along her arm as she pulls Londyn along. A few hairs on Lucian's head are singed off as he barely escapes the path of the fireballs. Everyone scatters like leaves in the wind, trying to find some little hole to fit their bodies into for protection.

Some find safety in the confines of a tank, another in the hollow of a tree or bomb shelter. Some of them barely able to cram their limbs into such a tiny space, hoping to outlast the storm-not realizing that they'd be suffering in those cramped conditions for seven hours.

* * *

Their bodies ache and slip, fear holding them in their positions as the day eight of the arena begins. The screen changes, half taken up by the arena and tributes and the other half taken up by Evered Finn. He looks tired and exhausted. His voice booms out over the television and across the arena, where it's pasted on the sky.

"Last night, my father passed away," his jaw tightens. "His death was expected, he'd been suffering a long time. But he is at peace now. We will have some days of mourning, and then the funeral. It was my father's wish for me to take up his mantle, and I have agreed to do so."

His words rumble on. The shock on the faces of those in the arena is absolute. They, of course, had no idea that any of this was coming. I motion for Xander to stop the plague early, let them move-let them react.

Most of them are shocked, silent trying to process it without giving too much of themselves away. But Jet laughs, the eery frightening sound echoing across the Control room.

By the time eleven am arives they're expecting it. The grasshoppers descend everywhere. We send them rations of food and disgusting power bars as the incessant chirping fills the air. Jonas quips about if only he had some chocolate to cover these grasshoppers in. But hunger weighs out in the end, and he does eat them while they struggle to get away as do some of the other tributes.

I sip my hot coffee, watching their discomfort. The pack of careers tries to hunt, but it's difficult for them. Difficult because there's so much movement everywhere, so much happening.

* * *

I stretch from the nap in my office and come out, ready for the next plague to hit. Xander is waiting, his uniform crisp and pressed. "Now," I tell him.

It reminds me of a bird cage. When it's time for the bird to be quiet, to sleep you drape a cloth over the cage and smother all the light out forcing them into a state of darkness so thick they can't see through it. That's the kind of darkness we press on them.

It's only midday-3PM when it happens. The sky doesn't darken slowly, it drifts to solid impenatrable black instantly. Curses fill the air as they stumble, as they fight against the darkness. Most of them were walking or moving.

They wait for their eyes to adust in vain. The terror must be seizing them now. Because it is so incredibly dark, like ink and they cannot escape it.

I revel in their pain as they sit there hour after hour or as they stumble along a few feet. But eventually it's just too dangerous. Each of them sit down, the fear and terror on their face. They wonder is everyone forced into this darkness? What terror, what thing that can rip me apart lurks just beyond if I move?

The minutes stretch to hours, and pretty soon it's a whole day. Some of the stifle sobs, but Juniper stares blankly in the darkness. Anya and Damian grip hands together and talk, on and on about stupid things. And the more they talk, the more they become bonded to each other-they'll realize later that when it's time to make a choice of life or death it'll be hard if it involves the other on.

Londyn alone is unphased by the darkness. Her hand reaches out to Roulla, "It's okay."

Roulla doesn't speak, but she looks in the vicinity of Londyn, something so naked and beautiful on her face. The foolish girl loves Londyn-not for what she is, but who she looks like.

"It's okay, it's only the dark," Londyn whispers. Roulla's hand drifts from Londyn's up her arm, tracing the tiny needle point stars on her arm.

And Londyn for some reason-survival, for thanks-leans toward Roulla. Her lips find Roulla's easily in the dark, there's a kind of pull that makes it easier to find someone's lips in the dark-like a magnetic force field.

Their lips touch, and Roulla sighs a little as her hand tangles in Londyn's hair. And so soft, it may not even be a sound, "Yirone."

The morning dawns of the 10th day in the arena and the sky is streaked with light. Everyone jumps up, eager to see. Their eyes blinking, against the sudden light. The sun comes out full force as if it had not just hidden it's self for days.

In the ancient text, the final plague was to kill the first born child in every family who did not make a certain sacrifice-but here there were too many first borns. No fun it that being the determination of their death.

The ones who had been festering and sick before, had held on through this-their food and water imbued with antibiotics enough to keep them from slipping away-but not enough to heal them.

The low steady roar fills the air. Eyes flick to the sky, terror washes over them as they see them coming-bomber planes.

They scream and they run, but there's no escaping them. One by one each of the bomber planes opens up and drops its load.

The most terrifying plague of them all.

The photos flutter to the ground around the tributes. Some of them are too shocked to move, some too terrified to look. Canicus bends down and picks up a photo of him and his sister the day she was born. He picks up another quickly and another-his first kiss behind the school house when no one was around, the first time he had sex, the girl wrapped around him and his body pressing into hers. Another of the day he met his best friends.

By now they're all looking, terrified of the pictures as if they had a voice-for they do. They say, I have watched you in every moment. Nothing is secret from me. I have seen each kiss, each tender moment, each moment you'd like to forget, things no one else has seen...I have watched you all your life.

And the look on their faces is priceless, because now they are wondering, "How long ago was I picked for these games?"

* * *

**Disclaimer: The views of religion shown in this chapter and some that may come to follow are not the beliefs of any of us here at 24, merely as Panem would view them. They would take holy script and make themselves "gods".**


	60. The Devil on Your Shoulder

_First off; so sorry for our abrupt inactivity. Gamemaker Phoenix (Nina) has been ill as of late, in the E.R. for the past two days with thrush and bronchitis. We've been trying to organize and get things back on track but it's proved to be hard._

_Which leads us into the next order of business: Hello Darkness, My Old Friend. We (as in Nina and her interns) haven't gotten to collaborating yet on questions and preparing for the forms for try-outs. Again, our faults. (I know you guys are just going to say, oh, feel better, it's fine, but grumbling on the inside, ugh, I just want to try-out and get started already! Trust me, I'm anxious to get to know you guys too!) We hope to get something together for a Saturday update. Please bear with us. Thank you all who have been so loyal and understanding._

_Ah, now onto our chapter. Some of the chapters had to be switched around but I'm certain you won't know._

* * *

**Erik Fiske of District Eleven**

**By NicKenny**

**Evening – Day Ten**

* * *

"_He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore" – Sigmund Freud._

* * *

I stare at the girl in front of me, my eyes narrowed in distaste, but fortunately obscured by the mask of the scarecrow. I don't know what to make of her yet, but I'm close to finding out, I'm sure of it. Her eyes are focused at a point somewhere above my left shoulder, her face as pale and pallid as ever as she appears to smirk, then shakes her head and turns away. I watch her go, my fingers twitching slightly as I tightly grasp the scythe in my hands, trying to resist the urge to send the metal blade shearing through her flesh, separating her head from her body. I restrain myself, but only just. It has grown harder and harder to do so every day. Especially since she knows about us.

The very sight of her reviles me. The sight of all my so-called "allies". Snakes that would gladly stab me in the back at the first opportunity, and smile as my face lights up the sky that night.

But I need them, weak and insignificant as they are. The small, broody, insane one who my fingers still itch in the need to be wrapped around her throat, squeezing the life out of her small frame. Talking to her dead friends as though the dead had anything to say to the living, believing that "Death" guided her every footstep. The thought of her bothers me constantly. One day I would kill her…

No! I would not. She isn't a Career. She isn't my enemy here. She's the only one who's been truthful to us since I came here.

_We don't know that yet, _the voice of the Scarecrow reminds me, before fading away.

The red-haired girl, physically the greatest threat of the three, armed and almost as fast as Blackwater had been before the shrapnel had pierced his leg. She has been the biggest surprise to me and I often wonder how I had looked over her during our time in the Capitol. If any of them could best me, it would be her. If any of us were to win, my money would be on her. The girl whose district I despise, whose cheers constantly echo through my head at every moment making it impossible for me to THINK at times.

The boss man, inexpressive, immovable, unshakable and despicable. I had identified him as a threat right from the off, with his twitching and those eyes that screamed madness. Now, in the arena, he's like a different man. Calm, collected, silver-tongued and considerably saner than I could claim to be at this moment.

Make no mistake; I know I'm not the poster boy for sanity. There's a voice in my head constantly whispering to me, begging me to end the short, miserable lives of my allies, claiming that it would be "kinder" this way than letting the Careers get their hands on them. It rasps with the voice of the scarecrow that I had killed, not allowing me a single peaceful night's sleep, present in both my thoughts and dreams. Every minute out here is one locked in constant struggle, and I do not have any doubt that my companions know that something is off with me, but I doubt anyone of them could suspect how close they are to death at any waking minute.

Except maybe Maeve, who seems to see me for what I truly am. For what _we _truly are.

_Our fingers _itch.

"Fiske, you ok?"

My head snaps round and my eyes meet those of Atalanta Zimmerman. I stare at her a moment, breathing slowly, before nodding. I reach for the mask and slowly take it off, knowing that it will put her at ease. For some reason she assumes my instability was linked to the mask. She doesn't realise that _it _had always been a part of me, although it was only something I had realised in the arena.

"Yeah, I'm ok Zimmerman." I murmur slowly, a small smile on my face.

She stares at me sceptically for a moment, and nods towards Maeve, who appears to be having an animated conversation with a tree.

"What's going on between you two?" She asks, a note of concern in her voice. After all, she is the only sane one here. Or is she? I've noticed that sometimes she displays the same ticks I do, when the Scarecrow is whispering in my head. Maybe the sane one of the group isn't so sane after all…

I only smile at her question. "I think she's taunting me. She knows I'm not going to kill her. That's what her dead friends tell her, after all, isn't it? One day she might just push me too far." _We've come very close._

Atalanta frowns at me, her eyes dark and unreadable, her hand gently fingering the Capitol-forged knife by her side. I glance down at it pointedly, causing her to blush slightly and look away. "We're supposed to be able to work together." She mutters. "That's what Drake told us, right? We're all compatible?"

I snort, laughing to myself. "What does Drake know about anything?" I ask, a wry smile on my face. "He's only using us to get the job done. Do you really think he'll be the one taking the risks when we finally go after the Careers? No, Atalanta, it'll be the two of us who're the ones putting our lives on the line. We're the muscle, Drake's the 'brains' and Maeve…well I don't really know quite what that crazy bitch is."

Atalanta whistles to herself, looking away, before slowly looking back at me. "Bit rich of you to be throwing words like crazy around, isn't it?"

I chuckle despite myself, shaking my head in admiration. Damn it, despite all of my plans and intentions, I _like _this girl. She almost reminded me of Any–

No! I have promised myself that I wouldn't think about her. OR him. I…maybe at times I'll admit to myself that it was rash to walk out on them. Wounded and weak as they were…I could trust them. I could even perhaps consider them friends, despite the short time I spent in their company. And damn it, that girl was funny. She could always make me laugh.

I miss laughing. Really laughing, not a sarcastic or mocking chuckle.

Atalanta was funny too, but something in my mind was always warning me about her eyes. Her eyes were dead, never happy or sad, and scream out to me that this girl cannot be trusted. But I was better here. Here, I had the chance to even the playing field. Here I had a chance to kill Sade and get my revenge. For both my father _and _Bianca.

"So," She murmurs, interrupting my train of thought. "You think we can take them?"

I glance away, shaking my head free of images of my dad and Bianca. "What, Lucian and Maeve or the Careers?" I ask half-heartedly, interest in this conversation beginning to dwindle as I slip back in melancholy.

"I know we could take Drake and Morghul." She says, rolling her eyes. "I'm talking about the Careers."

I pause for a moment, thinking on the question. "Well…" I begin before pausing. "With the element of surprise…maybe. It's still five on four though, and I have doubts over how much use Maeve or Lucian will be in a fight."

She raises her eyebrows at the doubt of Lucian's fighting abilities. "Lucian?"

"Come on, you really think that guy can fight? He's so…prim and proper. So damn dignified."

"He's trained. He definitely knows how to use that weird sword of his."

I only snort in amusement. "Oh he's trained? Well so have I. So have you! Didn't do Con Rossencourte much good though, did it?"

This silences Atalanta and after a minute she stood up and walked away, heading over to where Drake stood at the edge of the hill we have camped out on, arms behind his back, perfecting the image of the wise and farsighted leader. I shake my head, snorting, and turn away, staring into the embers of last night's fire.

_When had I become so bitter?_ I wonder, before realizing how stupid this question sounded. Of course I'm bitter. I have every right to be. I'm competing in the Hunger Games after all.

But it's deeper than that. I…I can't remember the last time when I had been happy and content. Perhaps not since the day my father had died. Perhaps I never had been. As far as I could remember I had always been…angry. A part of me had always clenched its fists every time a Peacekeeper walked by. Its teeth grind each time it saw something that shouldn't be. Perhaps it was only now that I was being true to myself. Perhaps the scarecrow had always been inside my head, I just refused to hear it until now.

Or maybe the last few days had just pushed me too far. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened to a tribute, and it wouldn't be the last either. God knows I had cause enough to go crazy.

The last few days in particular would have been enough.

* * *

It had all begun at the start of the sixth day. I was on watch, mainly because I rarely slept anyway ever since entering the arena. None of the terrors the Gamemakers could whip up could match the terrors that haunted my dreams. I woke up Atalanta in order for her to take over and went down to the stream we had camped nearby, hoping to catch some of the small trout that swam through it for breakfast.

Without a net to fish with, and the spears we had were too large to be used to hunt the small fish, I was forced to resort to trying to grab them with my bare hands. Needless to say, it didn't go that well. Perhaps someone smaller and nimbler like Atalanta or Maeve would have had better success but I was loathe to ask for their assistance, determined to catch one of the accursed things myself. Fish were never seen in District Eleven, our rivers and lakes had long ago been converted to canals and reservoirs as the Capitol sought to control the water, just as they controlled the people.

Fish had long ago died out, not able to navigate through the complex systems of canal locks and dams, so my exploration in hunting fish had been doomed to fail from the off.

Then the weird stuff started happening, though I initially attributed it to the scarecrow screwing around with my brain. The water I was knee deep in suddenly began to take on a reddish tinge, growing thicker in consistency, and all the fish in the river slowly began to rise to the top, bobbing in an almost comical fashion on the surface of the stream. I stared for a moment, slowly reaching out to touch one of the fish that had eluded me up until now. My hand reached out, index finger gently tapping the dead animal and I almost sighed it disappointment when it failed to change form.

_My previous hallucinations had been _so _much more interesting._

I wondered for a second if Harris could have caused this. She had certainly known a lot about poisons. I had little doubt that she _could _have done this, but for one unfortunate flaw in that hypothesis. Dead people rarely go around poisoning things. It's not really something they're known to do.

Not even in zombie stories.

I headed back to my allies, my arms full of lifeless fish, the scarecrow's mask hiding the wide grin on my face. I faltered for a moment coming into camp as the others looked at me in shock for a moment. I simply stood there awkwardly, confused by the looks of alarm that they were exchanging. Drake gently cleared his throat, taking a moment to phrase his question. "Erik," he began, seeming unsure of where to begin. "Why are you covered in blood?"

I looked down at my clothes, before noting in surprise that I was, in fact, completely drenched in blood. I dropped the fish near the fire and turned back to him, taking the mask off, suddenly thinking slightly clearer. "I…I think the water in the streams just turned to blood." I said, slowly, hesitantly. "Em…we probably shouldn't eat the fish." I finished, slightly dazed, pointing at the offending pile next to me.

Unsatisfied by my explanation, Lucian and Atalanta followed me back to the stream, wishing to see it for themselves. Maeve chose to stay by the fire, seemingly fascinated by the dead fish. Each to their own I guess. It'd be a funny old world if we were all alike. Actually…it wouldn't be that funny if we were all like Maeve. Or Lucian. And _definitely _not like Jet Matthews. I'm actually starting to wonder who the most insane person out there is. Could it be me?

I pause for a moment, and remember Jet's lifeless eyes, Lucian's constant twitching (although that has lessened since we've entered the arena) and Maeve fondness of talking to ghosts that only she could see.

Maybe the crown of crazy isn't mine.

I'd like to think I have a claim to it though.

We stood over the stream of blood for a few moments in complete silence before Atalanta tentatively offered a conversation starter. "That's something I haven't seen before." She murmured, but we sadly could not provide anything more satisfying than a grunt and a shake of the head, before turning away. The Gamemakers certainly had been busy.

We decided to move camp, as the smell of dead things was becoming unbearable, even to Maeve, and so we located a new place to set up a mile or two away, far from the miraculous transforming water of death, and more importantly, the smell. However, we hadn't set up for more than an hour before something leapt on top of Atalanta's wild mane of fiery hair, causing her to shriek in surprise as she tore the thing off of her, throwing it onto the dirt in the centre of our camp.

Lucian sighed at this lack of decorum, muttering something under his breath as we stared at the small frog, which stared back at us with deep soulful eyes.

"Could it be a mutt?" I asked curiously, poking it with the end of my scythe's handle, to the amusement of the group.

"Of course it is," Atalanta chuckled. "And Maeve really can talk to dead people."

Maeve directed a dirty look her way before lying back down against the fallen oak bough she was using as a headrest, only giving Atalanta cause to chuckle even harder. "It's just a frog." Lucian stated, breaking in before an argument could start. "A small, harmless amphibian. It's nothing to worry about."

* * *

"It's nothing to worry about?" I asked weakly, about an hour later. The forest around us had filled with hundreds upon hundreds of the damn things, and a tremendous _croaking _echoed through it every couple of seconds. Everywhere the eye could see, there were frogs. In the trees, climbing up the trees, jumping off the trees, on the ground, on our clothes, in our pockets, in our stomachs (after we wondered if we could eat them. Turns out we could). I'm going to say this as simply as possible, for those that haven't yet got the message. There were a lot of frogs. A _lot _of frogs.

I think we were starting to get the idea. The Gamemakers were bored. Not enough deaths yada yada. Meh. They could throw as many frogs at us as they wanted. They were just frogs. Not even poisonous or anything. I was beginning to wonder if the Gamemakers had really thought this one out. As irritating as a plague of frogs might be, in the end, they were still just frogs.

I was _not _going to be killed by a frog.

Sadly, the frogs had been the least of our worries. In fact, the majority of them dispersed after a few hours, leaving only a handful to keep watch on us, their croaks quietly reminding us of their presence at random periods. We weren't unduly bothered, merely presuming that they had gone to bother some other group of tributes. Personally I was hoping they had visited the Careers. They wouldn't put up as much of a fight if they had to spend a few nights with croaking frogs keeping them up all night.

Our camp settled back into normality, with Atalanta and Lucian discussing some plan or other for killing the Careers. I didn't pay much attention to be honest; we had yet to find their camp. And I had no doubt that they'd be properly dug in somewhere. They mightn't fear the other tributes, but, as I had witnessed in dozens of previous Games, a pack of mutts or some other Gamemaker meddling could wipe out any alliance, no matter how strong.

They'd be dug in somewhere safe. Waiting.

_Waiting for us to kill them all._

I continued to glare at Maeve, although I doubted whether she could tell, given that I had put my mask back on. It made it a bit hard for people to discern my facial expressions. She just sat there, head cocked to the side, no doubt listening to another nugget of wisdom coming from one of her dead friends.

I envied her. It'd be nice, having friends out here. God, I missed An–the person whose name I refuse to mention. With her jokes, smiles, sarcasm and constant complaining. With her tired eyes, tinged with equal measures of mirth and sadness. Her constant sniping at my abilities for finding shelter. Her constant attempts to either steal my scythe while I was asleep, or to try to barter for it while I was awake.

_Take care of her, Blackwater,_ I told the sky, as the sun began to go down in the distance. _Take care of each other._

I slipped into my own thoughts, and sat there, silent, while Maeve muttered under her breath to a person only she could see and Zimmerman and Drake discussed their dreary tactics. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Drake scratch his head vigorously, and something in my mind pinged as Atalanta copied this movement seconds later. An itch began to build up on the back of my own skull, and I took of my mask, noticing that Maeve had begun to scratch as well.

I ran my hand along the back of my head and raked the area with my fingernails. The itching didn't subside, but only moved around my head. I continued scratching, barbarically tearing at the itching skin, the sensation tormenting me until it was all I could concentrate on.

I glanced up to see the others acting similarly, barring Drake who has inspecting something on the tips of one of his forefinger with a look of great distaste. He looked up at me and grimaced, squeezing his fingers together, crushing whatever had been perched upon them.

"Lice." He muttered, his face a picture of disgust. Atalanta groaned next to him, while Maeve continued scratching her scalp furiously. I only sighed, drawing one of the small knives I had fashioned for myself out of shrapnel, shaking my head slowly as the others tensed, eyes fixed on the knife, hands reaching slowly for their own weapons.

The level of trust in my alliance was just…breathtaking.

I grabbed a few tufts of my hair with my free hand and began angrily hacking away at it, wincing as flashes of pain shot through my skull each time the imperfect blade snagged on a strand. Atalanta's knives would have been better suited to this task, the perfectly fashioned blades sharper by far than my crudely crafted ones. However I persevered, shearing my hair as close to my skull as I could manage, determined not to give those parasites a place to live.

The others only stared at me in silence, Atalanta silently stroking her own hair, possibly in the fear that I was going to ask them to follow my lead. It was kind of funny. I hadn't pegged her as the vain type.

Drake stared at me for a moment, before coughing into his hand, not quite meeting my eyes. "That was slightly…" he paused, grasping for the right word "…excessive, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "I have enough shit to deal with without having to worry about lice." I muttered, turning away and picking up my mask.

He simply chuckled to himself as I walked away. "I think I'll leave mine alone. Got to look the part for our audience, don't we?"

There was a pause as I turned back to him, glaring, suddenly overcome by the urge to rip his throat out, extinguish the light from his mocking eyes, tear the smug smirk off his face. I held myself back, barely, knowing that this was just the Scarecrow talking, knowing that these thoughts weren't my own.

I think he saw it though. Drake leaned forward for a moment, the smug superiority in his eyes replaced by a look of fascination. The silence between us was only broken when Atalanta suddenly piped up, giving up her attempts to pick out each individual nit with her fingers. "I bet I have the best lice."

We all turned, as a cohesive unit, to stare at her with a variety of expressions ranging from amusement (Drake), disgust (Maeve) and absolute incredulity (me).

She grinned back to us lazily and shrugged. "I bet they'd beat yours in a fight. I bet they're fucking _ninjas._"

I laughed, despite myself, and Lucian and Maeve followed suit. Our laughter wasn't the kind to subside either, but continued to build until we were rolling around on the ground, clutching our sides in mirth, the tension gone and the lice forgotten.

We managed to ignore the itching as best we could as night fell. My attempts at lice removal hadn't been a total success, and my scalp continued to itch, but not as unbearably as before. We lit a fire, cooked up some of the frogs that we had killed before they had disappeared. Maeve and I ate ours with gusto, not being the sort to turn up our noses at anything edible, but Lucian and Atalanta were definitely not overly thrilled at the thoughts of a second meal of frog that day. They should have tried living in District Eleven for a few years. You either give up your preconceptions on the edibility of certain things, or you starve to death. It's a man eat frog world out there.

"What'll they send next, do you think?" Maeve asked between mouthfuls, as Lucian grimaced in distaste and looked away, clearly appalled by her lack of manners. I was starting to wonder in what sort of environment he had grown up in, to become so…prim and proper. District Twelve were the coal mining district after all. It was inevitable that he'd have gotten dirty at some point in his life previously. However, he always remained intriguingly tight-lipped about his past, clamming up whenever I geared the conversation towards our lives before the Games. Then again, he was no more reticent about sharing than I was. Outliers had a tough time of it. Everyone had their own personal scars.

If he wanted his past to remain a mystery, I was content to let it be. I wasn't the Capitol. I could respect a person's rights to privacy.

I merely shrugged in reply to Maeve's questions, Atalanta merely offered a hopeful "Food that's not more frogs?" while Drake appeared to ponder, gazing off into the distance with far away eyes. He stayed like that for a long time, lost in his own train of thought, before looking back at Maeve and shaking his head slowly.

"The water…the frogs…the lice…it reminds me of something." He said, his voice troubled and weary. "But I can't quite put my finger on it. Something from an old book perhaps…" His voice trailed off, and we all stared into the fire for a moment, before Atalanta suddenly straightened up and whispered. "Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Maeve whispered back, but I took no notice of her, for I could hear it too. A droning, buzzing noise began to fill the air, and the branches of the trees around us suddenly swayed in a different direction, as though caught in a strong breeze that had suddenly started up. I grabbed my mask, shoving it over my head, and picked up my scythe, eyes darting from side to side, waiting for this new threat to reveal itself.

Maeve cocked here head to the side, shaking slightly, before suddenly clicking her fingers and exclaiming. "Genesis!"

Drake turned to her, understanding dawning and smiled. "Of course, the Bible!" He paused for a moment, eyes closed in concentration, before grimly intoning. "Moses and Aaron did as the Lord commanded. In the sight of Pharaoh and in the sight of his servants he lifted up the staff and struck the water in the Nile, and all the water in the Nile turned into blood. And the fish in the Nile died, and the Nile stank, so that the Egyptians could not drink water from the Nile. There was blood throughout all the land of Egypt."

I glanced at Atalanta, who merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Maeve likewise closed her eyes and continued Drake's recital. "And the Lord said to Moses, 'Say to Aaron, 'Stretch out your hand with your staff over the rivers, over the canals and over the pools, and make frogs come up on the land of Egypt!' So Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt, and the frogs came up and covered the land of Egypt.'"

I stared at them in confusion as the trees shook around us, and the almighty buzzing din grew louder and louder, until the only other thing I could hear was Drake yelling out the next few lines. "Aaron stretched out his hand with his staff and struck the dust of the earth, and there were gnats on man and beast. All the dust of the earth became gnats in all the land of Egypt."

Realisation suddenly dawned on me. Ok, so you've jumped to this conclusion way ahead of me. You (hopefully) aren't surrounded by people you know to be crazy, and are almost unable to hear your own thoughts due to some sort of buzzing hurricane that's growing closer and closer.

The Gamemakers had been ripping stuff off, yet again. I thought the scarecrows had been particularly unimaginative, but taking something straight out of an Old-World religious text still seemed a bit weak, even for them. Unimaginative, that's what they are. I guess I felt slightly insulted. They couldn't even put in the effort to come up with an original way of killing us.

God guys, where's your pride?

"What's the next part?" I yelled to Drake, screaming over the rising wind. He stared at me for a moment, his lips moving silently, his eyes wild. He finally raised his voice above the din, screaming until he was red in the face in the effort to be heard.

"Thus says the Lord, 'Let my people go, that they may serve me. Or else, if you will not let my people go, behold, I will send swarms of flies on you and your servants and your people, and into your houses. And the houses of the Egyptians shall be filled with swarms of flies, and also the ground on which they stand.'"

_Flies. _I thought, slightly relieved for a moment until I turned around, and realised that the night's sky was darker in some places than in others. I raised my hand, pointing towards the sky before understanding struck. I turned, grabbing my backpack, screaming "RUN!" with all my might. I didn't stop to see if the others had followed me, scrambling over tree roots and fallen branches in an attempt to put as much space between myself and the dark horde of insects that followed me, streaming through the forest like the very essence of darkness, swallowing up everything they landed on.

I heard someone crashing through the undergrowth behind me and glanced back, although I immediately regretted it. Atalanta was only a few feet behind me, her bright red hair streaming behind her, eyes opened wide in terror. Only a few feet behind her was a huge black cloud of the tiny insects, enveloping the undergrowth and trees it passed until they could not be seen. Atalanta foot snagged on a root and she pitched forward, screaming, arms waving, and was swallowed up by the cloud. I cursed under my breath and spun around, running into the host of flies, ignoring them as they swarmed around me, enclosing me into their midst, biting and smothering, all but blinding me.

A flash of red appeared before me and I reached out, pulling Atalanta up off the ground and half-carried, half-dragged her out of the swarm. When we burst through the mass of insects we collapsed onto the ground, utterly drained. The air was still filled with the flies but the host itself began to move on, scouring the forest for its next victim.

We lay there for about half an hour, shaking, still stunned by the sudden onslaught of flies. I pulled off my mask and ran my hands through what was left of my hair, breathing heavily, staring at the District Five tribute's prone form across from me. Occasionally I would swat one of the flies as it landed on me, taking a perverse satisfaction in crushing it between my fingers. Across from me Atalanta slowly began to unfurl from the fetal position I had found her in, and glanced over at me, trembling slightly.

It had been another five minutes before either of us found the courage to speak, Atalanta hoarsely muttering. "I _really _want to kill someone right about now."

I grunted, agreeing with her, before slowly clambering to my feet. "We better find Drake and Morghul," I said, offering my hand to her. She stared at it for a moment before grasping it in her own, and I pulled her to her feet.

"Yeah." She agreed, nodding, and then fell back into a contemplative silence. We had spent a few more minutes retracing our steps (slowly, we had no intentions of running into the host again) before she spoke again. "Erik." She began, hesitantly. "Just…thanks. For coming back for me."

I looked over my shoulder at her and smiled, meeting her eyes. "That's ok." I said. "I know you'd do the same for me."

Ok, I know what you're thinking. Even I thought that sounded hollow.

We found Drake a short while later, leaning against a tree, calmly inspecting his nails. "You took long enough," was all he said, but the multitudes of bite-marks across his face and arms defied his stoicism. Maeve had climbed up a tree a short way away in an attempt to evade the swarm. Like Lucian, she was also covered in bites, even more so than myself or Atalanta. My mask had been particularly useful and had protected my face from much of the flies' assault, as only a few had gotten underneath it to bite at my flesh.

Battered, bitten and bruised, we began searching for a new place to set up camp, as none of us had any desire to return to the site where the flies had first set upon us. Lightning might never strike twice in the same place, but I don't think that proverb could be applied to a horde of genetically mutated flies.

For what felt like the billionth time that day, we set up camp. To tell you the truth, the flies had probably chased us across the threshold of the seventh day, so this was actually the first time we had set up camp that day. So whatever.

I drifted off to sleep, despite my fears of nightmares, but encountered none during the night. Maybe the nightmares were born out of restlessness, not knowing what was going to happen next. Or maybe I was just exhausted from that last day. I mean, turning water into blood, sending a horde of frogs, lice and flies after us…well, I've got to hand it to them. They mightn't be particularly imaginative, but at least they don't let up.

Lucian nudged me awake, his face serious and impassive. I groaned, blinking rapidly in the harsh sunlight. Across camp both Atalanta and Maeve lay, still asleep. I rubbed my eyes wearily, sitting up, and glared at Lucian.

"What?" I rasped; my voice hoarse. He didn't reply, but instead simply turned on his heels and walked away, motioning for me to follow him. I gave out a weary sigh but scrambled to my feet and walked after him. A sense of unease grew within me as we walked deeper and deeper into the forest, but Drake still refused to speak. It was only when he reached a clearing that I suddenly understood the reason behind my premature awakening.

Four deer lay dead in the centre of the clearing, flies swarming over their rotting carcasses. The stench was by far the most revolting thing I had ever experienced, and I almost gagged, bile rising up my throat, before regaining my composure. Lucian himself just stared at the corpses, his face white and his eyes filled with the same look of curiosity they sometimes took on when he looked at me. He turned to me and nodded towards the dear. "Any ideas on what happened?" he asked.

"The next plague, I'd imagine." I murmured, slowly walking up to the corpses.

Behind me Lucian sighed. "Obviously." He muttered. "But how was it brought on. Did the water kill them or the flies? Or was it something else?"

I nodded, understanding dawning. Both Drake and Maeve had been pretty badly bitten by the swarm of flies. If those bites were poisonous, and had killed the deer, then they probably didn't have long to live themselves. As for the water, well, we had steered clear of streams and any other sources since my encounter with the stream of blood and dead fish.

We'd have to go find some eventually though. Won't be getter very far without water.

_We could slit their throats and drink their blood? _A dark voice suggested in my ear but I ignored it. At times I could easily differentiate between my own thoughts and the Scarecrow's, but quite frequently the division blurred, and I couldn't tell whose thoughts were whose. No matter what, they were always there, a dark, raspy voice commanding, pleading, threatening or bargaining.

It _never _stopped talking.

I crouched down next to one of the carcasses, a young doe, and inspected the bite marks on its hide. "This one wasn't killed by flies at any rate." I muttered, slightly relieved.

"How can you be sure?"

"The bites would be inflamed if they had been poisonous and inflicted before the time of death. This one's only been bitten afterwards. Something else killed it."

"The water?"

I shook my head vigorously. "No. If it had been the water the stomach would be visibly swollen." I gestured towards the deer's torso. Its stomach was utterly normal, with no unsightly bulges or anything to indicate foul play. "Something else killed this deer."

Drake stood there, nodding thoughtfully. "Behold, the hand of the Lord will fall with a very severe plague upon your livestock that are in the field, the horses, the donkeys, the camels, the herds, and the flocks."

"Deer aren't livestock."

Drake shrugged. "Perhaps they weren't expecting us to be rigorously critiquing their methods. I am prepared to concede that deer are not livestock. I would continue by proposing that the Gamemakers do, in fact, not care."

I stared at him, the Scarecrow whispering in the back of my mind, my hand flexing, before nodding and standing up. "They are a shower of pricks all right."

"You certainly have a way with words." He remarked drily, a slight smile on his face.

"Let's head back to camp."

* * *

The next few hours had been amongst the worst in my life. The bites we received from the fly swarm began to swell into boils. Every step, every word, every movement was agony. If the Careers had come across us then, we wouldn't have been able to put up much of a fight. "If. I. Win." I hoarsely muttered to Maeve just after the boils had appeared. "Remind me. To kill. Whichever. Gamemaker. Came up. With. This. Idea."

She nodded weakly in assent, her eyes closing tightly in an expression of great pain. I sympathised. She and Drake had it the worst, after receiving the brunt of the flies' assault. That wasn't to say that both Atalanta and I weren't in agony to though.

As Drake informed us: "And the magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils, for the boils came upon the magicians and upon all the Egyptians."

I sympathised with those magicians, but I must concede that having magic would have been suitable compensation, and would be very handy out here. I wonder if a sponsor could purchase that for me. One order of magical powers, pronto! There's a hungry, boil infested teenager out there who needs them! They didn't come sadly, but I suppose it had been an unlikely turn of events.

We were fortunate, however, as only an hour into this latest plague the tinkling sound of a silver parachute rang out from above and the shimmering box landed neatly at Atalanta's feet. Zimmerman quickly pounced on it and her face lit up the second she had opened it. The box was filled with creams designed to alleviate the fever brought on by the boils, reduce the size of the swelling, dull the pain and prevent further infection. While I entertained a hope, just for a moment, that they had, in fact, sent us magical powers, I suppose the creams were still a pleasant surprise. There was also a small piece of paper within, no doubt containing some words of wisdom from her mentor. Later, heartened by the fact that there had been enough of the creams for all of us, our pain already receding, and slightly encouraged by the fact that somewhere out there someone was rooting for our little alliance, we got to talking.

It had been the first time we had actually interacted as an alliance, rather than simply a group of people who had been thrown together by fate, and for a short while I was able to forget the events of the past few days.

"So, what's it like, having a mentor?" I asked, half in jest, half in genuine interest.

Atalanta just shrugged. "What, Vanyo? He's a decent enough guy I guess. But damn, talk about blowing his own trumpet. Thought he was the greatest mentor a girl could ask for. That every bit of advice that came out of his mouth was pure gold!" She paused, wincing as her clothes brushed off one of the boils on her stomach. The creams might have helped, but we weren't cured of them by a long shot.

_You criticise him, yet you were pretty protective of that card. _I thought to myself. "And were they?" I asked. "Pure gold, that is?"

She just shrugged and looked away, pretending to inspect her fingernails. "Didn't do Bastian much good."

A knife of guilt stabbed my abdomen, and I winced in real pain, remembering his screams just before he died. I think they'd stay with me until I died. I know the sounds of his district cheering would. Even now they still haunted my nightmares. Even now they caused my blood to boil.

"Are you…sorry about that?" I asked tentatively. "Are you sorry he's dead?" And my hand gripped the handle of my scythe tightly, trembling slightly, and in the back of my mind the Scarecrow crowed with mocking laughter, and the roaring cheers of District Five ran through my head.

She looked at me for a second, her eyes hard, but…possibly tinged with…regret? "Only one tribute can win." She murmured, her tone serious, her face expressionless. The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours, but couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes. Well, silent for the others. My head throbbed with the cheering, and slowly began to fill with bloodlust and anger.

Until she spoke again, and I let it all go.

"He was just a kid." She muttered, looking at the ground by her feet. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not relieved that he's dead but still…he was just a kid."

I nodded, slowly placing my scythe on the ground next to me, my heart no longer throbbing so strongly, the voice of the Scarecrow growing quieter and quieter, until I could barely make it out.

"Gage, my mentor, thinks I'm insane." Maeve intoned sadly.

I chuckled. "Maeve, I hate to break it to you, but we all think you're insane." She scowled at me for a moment, before I offered her my hand in apology. "But that's ok. We're all mad here, after all."

She smiled a bit at that, and nodded to me, seemingly content with my apology. We sat there for a while, slowly recuperating, chatting about insignificant things from our lives in the districts. Drake didn't contribute much, but I guess that was only to be expected. This time I was free enough with my life, apart from anything to do with my family. A guy has the right to have some secrets, after all.

"What's the next plague?" I muttered wearily, aware that it would be in our interests to prepare for it in some way, but loathe moving from my now very comfortable spot next to our campfire.

Drake glanced over at me, his face as composed as always. "Behold, about this time tomorrow I will cause very heavy hail to fall, such as never has been in Egypt from the day it was founded until now. Now therefore send, get your livestock and all that you have in the field into safe shelter, for every man and beast that is in the field and is not brought home will die when the hail falls on them."

"Damn." Atalanta whistled behind me, surprise in her voice. I nodded to myself and stood up slowly, taking care not to aggravate any of my boils.

"I suppose we had better find shelter then."

* * *

We found a cave nearby, although the trek to it had felt like an eternity. By this stage we were in a sorry state, hungry and thirsty, but not yet desperate enough to touch the water that we came across, or go hunting. Dying due to poisoned food or water would be a horrible way to go.

Maybe our sponsors would take pity on us.

The hail began to fall like boulders of ice dropping from the sky. Wait…that's actually exactly what they were. Hail the size of my head struck the ground outside, smashing through trees and punching holes in the ground, throwing dirt up in the air wherever it struck.

"Just as well we're not out in that." Atalanta muttered, to which we all supplied our own grunts of agreement. "Surely someone's not going to get out of that. We might still be out there if Lucian hadn't known his Classics so well."

I nodded. That would not have been fun.

"How are the Career's coping with this, I wonder?" I muttered, voicing my question out loud.

Atalanta merely shrugged, and suggested that maybe they had all died. Maeve was quick to throw doubt on this, claiming that she'd know if anyone had died. Admittedly, she hadn't informed us of Juniper or Alaric's deaths, but would no doubt claim that she had known, just didn't think of mentioning it.

Maybe one of us had been giving magic powers.

And maybe Phoenix Snow actually has a heart.

Lucian said nothing, just sat there looking out as the hail plummeted down and crashed in to the earth, lost in thought. I hoped he had a plan. I sure as hell didn't.

The hail stopped after an hour or so, and we emerged from the caves. The ground outside was pockmarked from the falling hail, and all around us lay half melted chunks of ice. We broke off several pieces, heating them up in a large lump of metal that we had fashioned into a kind of pot. That sorted out our problems with finding water at least.

"Why the Four Horsemen, Drake?" Atalanta asked after we returned to the cave as darkness began to fall, pausing after to take a drink. "What were you hoping to achieve there?"

Drake had stared at her for a minute, his left eyebrow raised, before slowly smiling. "To make us memorable, Atalanta. Everyone will be watching the Careers. It's only natural after all. The Careers will satisfy their bloodlust." He stopped for a second, before nodding to himself. "Well, they should have. Obviously the death toll has been exceptionally disappointing at the moment. But they'll remember us. Especially after we break the Careers. How could they not? A group of four Outliers, none of them considered the out-and-out favourites in a year that contains some of the most promising Career tributes to date, along with Aleah Armani's brother and the son of District Seven's mayor, slaughtering the Career pack?! Trust me Atalanta, when they see us ride out, we'll be remembered for years to come. They'll remember the Quarter Quell's Four Horsemen."

_So he's using us. _The Scarecrow murmured in my ear. _Without us he'd be vulnerable, unnoticed, uncared for. _He_ needs us more than _we _need him. Remember that._

I shook my head, disregarding its words. They stayed with me though, despite my best efforts. He _was _using us. And we had spent the last two days moving from place to place, essentially doing nothing. We were no closer to killing the Careers than we had been in the beginning. I was starting to lose faith in Drake's ability to lead this alliance.

_He doesn't know what to do._

I was interrupted from this revelation by the trees, which began to shake outside. Once again, the night's sky appeared even darker than before, the moon and stars hidden. "So it begins." I muttered, my face hidden behind my mask, my body tired of these plagues, just waiting for them to end, wanting to get this one over with as soon as possible.

Drake walked to the edge of the cave, muttering under his breath. When he reached the edge he threw up his arms, crying: "Behold, tomorrow I will bring locusts into your country, and they shall cover the face of the land, so that no one can see the land! And they shall eat what is left to you after the hail, and they shall eat every tree of yours that grows in the field, and they shall fill your houses and the houses of all your servants and of all the Egyptians, as neither your fathers nor your grandfathers have seen, from the day they came on earth to this day!"

"Do you really have to recite each one Lucian?" Atalanta asked from the rough bed she had made in the far side of the cave. "You could just sat 'There's gonna be a shit-ton of locusts.' We'd all be so much happier."

Drake turned, looking irritated, his mouth set into a rather forced smile. "There's such a thing as style." He muttered, sound aggrieved.

"There are also about a billion locusts descending on the forest." Noted Maeve, whose eyes had stayed on the cloud of darkness, rather than on Lucian. The forest had indeed been covered by locusts, and the trees shook wildly as millions of the insects fought for food, some even collapsing between the weights of the swarm.

"They always manage to outdo themselves with each one, don't they?" Lucian asked after we stood watching this spectacle for a few minutes. "I mean, sure, this plague does bear similarities to the flies, but it still has its own unique effect. There's not going to be much food out there after today. All the animals have died and the vegetation will surely be gone too. This time next week, we'll have our victor."

"Good." Atalanta said, rising to stand next to him. "I'm looking forward to my coronation."

I took the first watch, gazing out at the locusts as they chewed their way through the forest. Could I control them with my mind, I wondered. I was Famine after all. Weren't locusts the perfect example of my power? I reached out with my mind, furiously commanding them to go and descend on the Career camp, wherever it was, but the insects ignored me, engrossed with their current task. _Figures_, I noted dourly. _I'm not really Famine anyway. I'm Scar – Erik Fiske. Of District Eleven. Son of Malcolm and Sara Fiske. I'm a little insane but I'm still ME!_

_Am I not?_

I fell asleep after waking up Atalanta. She was a bit groggy but got up without complaining, and as I drifted into sleep I heard her talking to someone. That in itself was nothing new, only this time I could have sworn I heard someone talk back.

_Lucian must have woken up to;_ was the last thing I thought before drifting off.

* * *

We woke up the next morning to total darkness.

"It is morning?" I asked, for what must have been the millionth time, to an increasingly incensed Maeve Morghul.

"Of course it is!" She snapped. "I had the last watch. The sun never rose!" Her eyes were wild with anger and confusion, a feeling all of us reciprocated. The Gamemakers could screw around with all manners of traps and mutts and we'd accept that…fairly cheerfully. We wouldn't protest at any rate. We'd even let them away with tampering with the weather. But turning off the sun? What kind of bizarre super villain shit was this?

We all stared out into the pitch darkness. Nothing moved or stirred under the enveloping darkness. We were blind from now on. Anything could be out there. Atalanta summarised our feelings in three words.

"Well this sucks."

Lucian turned to us, a wry smile on his face, his twitch having returned slightly. "I think this is our cue guys. We always knew we'd need the element of surprise on our side if we were to overcome the Careers. Well, what's better than total darkness to provide it? They'll never see us coming. _This _is the time for the Four Horsemen to ride out."

We agreed. We were excited, pumped up on adrenaline and yearning for our chance to fall upon the Careers and slaughter them. Oh how naïve we were. We had come together for one sole purpose: to kill the Careers. Now we thought we had a chance to catch them unawares. We'd soon find out how wrong we were…

-0-

"They've dug in." Lucian stated simply, his voice emotionless, his face blank. Despite this lack of reaction I knew he'd be fuming inside. His grip on this alliance was tentative at best, and grew frailer every passing day. He needed a Career for us to kill. _He _needs us more than we need _him._

We spent a few hours wandering through the darkness, no stars or moon to guide us. In a way, that made it easier for us to find the Career's camp: it was the only source of light for miles around. On the other hand, walking into trees and bushes got boring _real _fast. The highlight of the night I think occurred when Atalanta fell into a pond, screamed, and then began babbling about mutant alligators and turtles. _That_ part was funny. Filled with optimism and the beginnings of bloodlust we snuck upon the camp, only to realise one thing.

It was impenetrable.

Well, when I say that I don't mean that we couldn't get inside. We could. Just not before they realised it and certainly not before they had time to arm themselves. They'd erected a wall of sharpened wooden stakes around the camp, connected together by a barbed wire fence. The only way in was through a narrow gap in the defences, to the north of the camp, which was no doubt guarded at all times.

The front of their camp is more exposed, not so heavily built upon as the rear, with only a light ring of sharpened stakes and some trenches that have no doubt been booby-trapped. While this area appears to be an easier target, the trenches and the fact that the camp was built upon a slight hill means that by the time we'd have scrambled past their defences they'd have seen us coming so long ago they could have prepared tea for us.

In other words, while they were inside that little base of theirs, we couldn't touch them.

So we spent the eighth day sitting here, back in a part of the forest. Not too far from the Career's camp, but far enough away that we're unlikely to come across them while they're hunting. We spent it arguing furiously over tactics, coming up with plan after plan, but none of our ideas were feasible. Everything stank of failure from the beginning. The only thing that managed to raise our spirits, even for a short moment, was when a parachute fell from the sky next to Drake, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise and, just possibly, expectation. He pulled a wickedly curved blade out of it, something that looked like a cross between a sickle and a sword, which he informed us was known as a khopesh. Apparently his uncle had used a similar blade during the Seventh Hunger Games, maybe even the very same one that he held in his hands.

Turns out being a psychopath runs in the family.

"We could attack the camp when they've gone out hunting." Maeve suggested, her eyes shining in the dark.

I snorted to myself. "Great idea." I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Given that they'll never leave less than two people to defend the camp, who may well carry ranged weapons, and will pick us off, one-by-one, as we scramble over that little death-trap they've installed."

I could feel Maeve scowl, despite the darkness. Zimmerman had suggested that we start a fire but had been quickly shot down. This close to the Career's it was just too risky. Plus who knows how many other tributes would follow it to us, not to mention any wild animals or mutts that are still out here. No more risk taking. Not now. Not when we're so close.

"Then why don't we ambush them when they go out hunting? Four of us against the three of them, element of surprise on our side, and both Atalanta and Erik can climb trees better than anyone I've ever seen before! They'd never see us coming."

Maeve had been very eager for us to go on the offensive, but I didn't trust the smaller District Three tribute. She had spent quite a lot of time claiming to be Death's hand, hadn't she? If there's one thing I've learnt in my life, it's that even crazy people are more trustworthy than religiously crazy people. What happens if Maeve thought Death wanted us to die? Would she try to kill us herself?

Or just get us into a situation where she could let the Career's do it?

She was the most unstable of us all, and that took some doing. I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her. Although that was partially because I could probably throw her a good few feet.

I don't think the others would approve though, for some reason. Rain on my parade much?

Lucian just shook his head. "With Jet Matthews out there, I don't want us to take any chances. He's been leading their hunting, more often than not. I'd bet he's had experience in tracking. We can't rely on the element of surprise any more. As for outnumbering them, they have spent their entire lives training in a district that accommodates them. No matter how quick we are, how skilled we are or how strong we are, they'll always have the advantage."

Atalanta then chipped in. "And they've all got an arsenal of Capitol-forged weapons by this stage, no doubt. At the moment all we've gotten are two knives, a scythe and a short sword Erik made Lucian."

I stood up slowly and looked at her. "I guess we'll just have to rectify that then."

I had spent the rest of that day forging weapons, heading back into the trenches to collect as much shrapnel as possible in order to make knives and spearheads. The Career's might out number us, but I was going to make sure we had better weapons. Or at least more weapons.

Maeve accompanied me on the last of my trips, as Lucian decreed that none of us should go out alone, not when we had no idea what sort of traps where out there waiting for us. "So Moses stretched out his hand toward heaven, and there was pitch darkness in all the land of Egypt three days." He muttered to us as we left, warning us to take care. The Gamemakers were building up to something. It just meant that we had to be constantly vigilant.

I wasn't too thrilled about her help though. As I've said before, there was just something about her that irked me. It was the fact that she claimed to talk to the dead, I decided. The dead should be left alone. It was the least we could do for them.

At some point we passed into the ninth day. The darkness showed no signs of receding. Maeve just sat down on a fallen tree trunk as I gathered up a pile of shrapnel, taking care to occasionally glance up at the nearest tower, reassuring myself that they couldn't see in this darkness any better than we could.

"Erik?" She asked quietly. I grunted in reply, accidentally scratching myself with the serrated edge of one of the pieces of shrapnel.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

I glanced up at her in surprise, wondering whether she was somehow winding me up, but her face was deadly serious. I let out a little laugh, shaking my head.

"I don't hate you, Maeve."

"Liar."

I sighed, dropping the shrapnel onto the pile I had gathered. "Why do you think I hate you?" I asked wearily.

"Because I can see it in your eyes, every time you look at me, in the way you clench your hands in anger."

I went quiet, my left hand subconsciously fingering the short knife I had fashioned by my side. Maeve noticed this and raised an eyebrow. "I…I don't hate you Maeve." I said weakly, my left hand moving away from the knife.

To my surprise she simply smiled, perhaps a little sadly, although it was too dark to say for certain, and nodded. "I know you don't, Erik. It's not you that hates me. It's him."

I looked behind me, half-expecting to see someone hiding behind my back, despite the fact that I could barely see in the darkness that shrouded the landscape. "Who?"

"Him." She said again, staring at a point just above my left shoulder. "The devil on your shoulder, as it were. He's always there, whispering to you, berating you, hating everything around him. And he knows that I can see him. _That _is why you hate me."

I stared at her in disbelief. "What?" I asked, shaking my head. "You expect me to believe that crap? I'm possessed am I? By some sort of devil? You really are insane, you know that Morghul?"

"Not a devil Erik, although not far off. He looks…almost like a scarecrow to me. He's so angry, poisoning your thoughts. But he's a part of you all the same. The part you cut off, ignored for years, pretended never existed. The part that raged as everything you sought to build in life was torn down, every friend you made killed, everything you cared about desecrated. He's you Erik. Just angrier than you could ever manage to be. But he's taking control, a little at a time. One day soon there isn't going to be an Erik Fiske left. All there'll be will be– "

"Scarecrow." I whispered, not even fully aware that I was doing so, a tear streaking down my masked face. "How?" I asked, not even able to phrase the questions I wanted to ask, not able to understand. "How did you know?"

"I can see a lot more than you give me credit for, Erik Fiske. I can see a man burning on a bonfire of books; I can see a woman, walking through the Capitol dressed like an Avox. They look like you. I can see two others, a man and a boy, watching us right now back in District Eleven. You think about them all the time."

I shook my head, my mind filled with pain and homesickness as each word she said rang through, echoing in my mind, twisting in my gut. Another tear crept down my face, swiftly followed by another. "Stop." I whispered but Maeve only laughed wickedly.

"I can see the eight dead tributes Erik. Each of them way down so heavily upon your shoulders. I can see Bastion Estatika in your every waking thought. Why do you feel so guilty Erik? Why do you care so much about the fate of one little tribute?"

"Shut up Morghul. I'm warning you."

"I see two people, walking through the forest, searching for you Erik. A girl and a boy. Why are you really wearing Damian Blackwater's jacket Erik? Why would the Eight's be looking for you."

I fell to my knees, clutching my head, my mind throbbing with pain. "Get out, you bitch. Get out of my head." I murmured, shaking,

"But most of all I see Bianca Neve. Her eyes wide open with fear as she died, his hands throttling the life out of her. How he lied to her, saying that you had perished in the Bloodbath, not satisfied with simply killing her but crushing the last of her hope out of her. All you do is think about her Erik. She's here, with us now, did you know that. She follows you around all the time. She says you promised to take care of her. Is that true, Erik?"

I slowly got to my feet, trembling, and took one weary step toward her. She just stared at me with wide open eyes as my arm stretched out. I grabbed her by the throat and lifted her a good two feet off the ground, eyes fixed on hers, my tears dried, my eyes hard.

"Stay. Out. Of. My. HEAD!" I screamed, tightening my grip and squeezing. Maeve gasped, her eyes opening even wider, but managed to cough out two words.

"He…hello…Sc...scare...crow."

I looked into her eyes, and saw the sadness and insanity that raged with her, but for the first time, I also saw myself. I dropped her and stared at my hand in shock, shaking uncontrollably. Maeve landed on the ground with a thud and began coughing furiously, her hand holding her throat as she gasped for air.

"Maeve…I'm sorry. Really…I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what came over me."

She didn't even look at me, just continued wheezing on the ground. "You know _exactly_ what came over you." She hissed. "The scarecrow."

I turned away, my face flushed in shame, and began scooping up the pieces of shrapnel, my feelings of guilt making it impossible for me to look at Maeve until something flashed red in my mind and I slowly turned around, eyes fixed on her.

"Maeve," I began, my voice cold and unfeeling once more. "How do you know how Bianca died?"

I took a threatening step towards her, unslinging the scythe from my back. She just glanced at it, wrinkling her nose in distaste and sneered at me. "How do you think, Scarecrow? I read it off him, just as I read you. He mightn't wear his heart as openly as you do, but he can't hide from me."

"Who are you talking about?" I asked, my voice as cold as ice, feeling almost detached from the scene at hand. Even before she spoke I knew exactly what she was about to say.

"Why do you think I'm here, Erik? I have no interest in seeing the Careers dead. I have a protector. If he decides my time is up, then there's nothing an alliance is going to do about. I'm here because I could smell the death off him, and it _fascinated _me. Drake, Erik. Lucian Drake. Who else?"

I stood there for what felt like hours, unmoving, not saying a word, staring into the eyes of a girl I knew I couldn't trust, but whose words rang truer than anything else I had heard in my life up until this point.

"I think it's time to head back to camp."

* * *

We walked back in complete silence. Maeve knew that I wasn't in the mood for talking and wisely kept her mouth shut. Her dead friends were no doubt talking away to her though, but there wasn't much we – I could do about that.

Drake and Atalanta were talking quietly to each other as we came into camp, looking up in confusion due to our lack of shrapnel. "Did anything go wrong?" Atalanta asked in concern. "Did you come across another tribute?"

I ignored her, my eyes fixed on Drake. "No." I murmured. "I just have a plan to draw out the Careers."

Lucian frowned at me, clearly taking in my agitated state. "I don't know, Erik. Atalanta and I were thinking about just hunting down the other tributes. We'll kill those we can't trust and allow the others to join us until we outnumber the Careers. And that way, it'll be our alliance the Capitol is watching. I imagine the Careers will get pretty boring if all the other game has been…taken care of."

I shook my head slowly, drawing my scythe, anger in my voice. "I won't kill Outliers, Lucian. That's not what I'm here for. We joined up to kill the Careers. _That _is what we're going to do."

Lucian stared at me for a moment and I saw Atalanta slowly reach for her knife, and I had little doubt that Maeve was doing the same thing behind me. His face was as blank as ever but in his eyes I saw…fear? Irritation? Maybe even a flash of anger?

Suddenly he gave a short, curt nod and smiled. "You're right. We're here to kill the Careers. What's your plan?"

* * *

We walked through the trenches in darkness, feeling our way along the sides, praying that we would pass unheard, unnoticed by the guards who populated the towers. Eventually, however, we reached our goal, and I stood smiling before them.

"This is where I found the flare on the first day." I murmured. "In here is everything we'll need."

I walked into the dugout and my foot hit off something. I bent down, rummaging around until my groping fingers wrapped around something and I smiled. I pulled the cap off the flare, striking it against the caps coarse top, igniting it. The room we were in was thrown into light, and the others collectively gasped.

"You've been keeping secrets, Erik." I heard Lucian murmur appreciatively. Little does he know, I mused to myself, my hand once again fingering the short knife by my side.

The room was filled with all manners of crates, and the crates themselves were filled with far more interesting surprises. We tore the cover off of one to reveal several of dynamite, another contained more flares, others were filled to the brim with deactivated mines, bombs, ammunition for guns of all kinds.

"Maeve," I said, grinning widely as I did so. "How much do you know about making bombs?"

She only frowned, dashing my hopes when she opened her mouth and said: "Me? I don't know anything about them."

There was a long, agonizing pause before she smiled slightly to herself. "But I know someone who does, and conveniently she's right here with us."

Lucian and I glanced at Atalanta and she raised her hands, shaking her head furiously. "It's not me."

"No, it's not," Maeve agreed, the smile not leaving her face. "Her name is Jules Surket. You may remember her."

-0-

I stood outside, gazing at the twelve district towers that surrounded the trenches. Atalanta walked out, gave me a small smile, then turned and followed my lead. "Drake said the towers are filled with people from our own districts."

I grunted in agreement, my eyes fixed on the District Two tower. "Drake says a lot of things."

"So what does Erik say? You still haven't filled us in on the whole plan. Sure, we've got our hands on some explosives, and I pray to god Maeve actually knows what she's doing, but what now? We won't be able to smoke the Careers out, and it'd take too long to rig up a bomb big enough to blow up their full camp. They'd see us."

I only smiled, shaking my head slowly. "I'm not going after the Careers, Atalanta."

She looked puzzled. A pity. Normally she just looked determined and angry. She was quite pretty then. "Then who are we going after."

I glanced at her and nodded towards the towers that I had been staring at so intently only a moment ago. "We're making it personal." I murmured, in a voice as soft silk. "We're going after One, Two and Four. We'll see if that smokes them out."

* * *

Creeping through the trenches once more, slowly getting closer and closer to the District Two tower. Each of us carrying a package under our arms. Bombs. One for each Career Tower and one for "just in case" or at least that's what I told them. A guy has the right to have secrets after all.

_We'll see if District Five can continue cheering after _this.

We reached the foot of the tower, and spread out along the base. I knew there had to be some sort of door here, which would be the perfect place to plant a bomb next to. Destroy the only exit and not many of them would make it out alive. I finally found the edge of the door, running my hands across it, but was shocked to find that it was open. Only then did I become aware of the stench emitted from the wooden structure, which brought to mind the dead deer from only a day or two before.

"Something's wrong." Maeve muttered beside me. "Death is all around us."

I groped inside my backpack for a flare, pulled one out, ignited it and held it out in front of me. Behind me I heard Lucian gasp (quite uncharacteristically) and Atalanta groan before throwing up. Everyone lay dead inside; their bodies riddled with red holes that had previously oozed blood but had dried out at this stage. Empty shell casings dotted the ground, perhaps supplying a clue as to how they met their fate. The floor was sticky with blood and the stench was revolting, stifling us, making it impossible to breath.

"They killed them." I said quietly, all thoughts of revenge banished. "The Capitol killed them all. Just because they could."

"We should bury them." Maeve finally whispered, shivering in the cold.

"Why?" Lucian wanted to know. "We don't have the time to waste on something like that. The Capitol will send them home for burial. We have more important things to do or are you forgetting?"

I turned to them, shaking my head slightly. "Let's just burn it and move on." I said wearily. "The Capitol won't send them home. They'll just be the people who never returned from the Quarter Quell. Just like us. Just like every poor bastard who's died out here because those shits up in the Capitol have nothing better to do than murder people for fun."

"Erik." Atalanta muttered warningly. I only shrugged, tearing off my mask and spitting on the ground.

"You really think they're going to show any of this Zimmerman? They won't. And no one will ever know the truth. Because that's the world we live in. People die and everyone just forgets them!" I sighed, before wearily finishing. "The odds were never in our favour, Atalanta. Or in these poor bastards favour. We're ants. And what happens to ants? They get crushed."

Lucian patted my shoulder, nodding to the open door. "Burn it." He said, his voice sounding as tired as I felt. "Burn it all."

We moved on to the others after that. In each tower we found the same thing. Piles upon piles of corpses, riddled with bullets, brutally murdered. I almost broke down when we entered the District Eleven tower. Some poor wretched guy must have survived the onslaught for a brief time, mortally wounded, for on the wall facing us as we walked in the symbol of the Scarecrows, two interlocking scythes before a glaring sun, had been daubed onto it in the painter's blood. We burned each tower behind us, not saying another word, our hearts heavy and our eyes hard.

We left in total silence, walking back to our camp in the forest, leaving behind twelve burning pillars which would no doubt attract the attention of every living thing for miles. When we had long left the trenches behind us, but still hadn't quite reached the forest, a shrill whine began to rise up and the sky roared with a noise that I hadn't heard since the Bloodbath. The sun had begun to rise, ending our two days of darkness, and we were just about able to make out the shapes in the sky. _Planes, _I thought. _Here to kill us, no doubt._ After all they couldn't let us win, not now, not after what we had just witnessed. Then again…what would we have to gain by revealing the truth? And if they threatened to hurt my mother, or Adam and Damien…well maybe I would keep quiet. Then why send the planes.

"I remember now." Drake said, standing next to me. His voice sounded particularly eerie in the poor light, cold and aloof, utterly unafraid about what was to come. "About midnight I will go out in the midst of Egypt, and every firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sits on his throne, even to the firstborn of the slave girl who is behind the handmill, and all the firstborn of the cattle. There shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there has never been, nor ever will be again."

I turned to him, looking away from the planes that continued to fly closer and closer. "You also told us there would be three days of darkness and there was only two. What happened there?"

"I'd like to think we have bigger problems at the moment."

We ran for cover as the planes roared, and the sky began to rain with what I first assumed was shrapnel as it fell to the ground. But it didn't smash into the ground as metal normally would, but instead kind of fluttered down, almost like millions upon millions of pieces of paper. I reached out my hand and plucked one from the air. It was a photograph, displaying Jonas Emerson appearing to be locked in an argument with an older man, possibly his father as he bore some passing resemblance to him. I picked up another. Here Sean Armani stood, laughing with his sister Aleah. In another Canicus Macaulay stood talking to a similarly bulked up teenager, no doubt a fellow trainee in District One. My allies began looking through the photographs too, gasping at random intervals, sometimes tearing up the photographs, but always reaching for another.

I finally picked up one that meant something to me personally, letting out a shocked gasp as I stared at my father's body, burning on that bonfire all those years ago. Desperately I reached for others: Me, standing next to Adam and Damien, holding the scarecrow I had made myself. Me, tracking a wolf pack with another Scarecrow, holding my bow firmly in my hands. Me, attacking the Peacekeeper after I had seen my mother in the Capitol. A picture of my mother, lying naked at the end of plush bed, a sneering Capitolite staring at her with a mixture of lust and disdain on his face.

Hundreds of others, containing both moments that had been precious to me along with others that only served to cause me pain. I began tearing them up, taken by a fever that _burned_ through my body, the Scarecrow cackling maniacally in the back of my mind.

Behind me I felt Drake move, staring at photographs of his own that I could just about make out in the corner of my eye. A burning school, flames tearing through the wood and crumbling masonry. He was shaking, his face, normally so expressionless and controlled, was that of a man stunned to his very core. His mouth moved slowly, forming words that he failed to give voice to, before shaking his head angrily. "This is nothing short of propaganda!" he spat, tearing the picture up into pieces and throwing them into the air. "Poorly constructed forgeries. Lies of the highest order. How can they think to rattle us with such…with such…?" He trailed off, shaking, his twitch having returned. The first time I ever saw the guy stuck for words. His cheeks flushed, his eyes sparking dangerously with barely suppressed rage.

And the photographs continued to fall…

* * *

I shake my head, discarding those recollections, and stand up. "Drake?" I call out. He looks up and stares at me. "Do you want to go do the rounds? Just a quick scout?" He stares at me for another moment before nodding to me, getting to his feet and picking up his khopesh.

We walk in silence for a few minutes before I frown slightly and turn to him. "Lucian." I begin, calmly and reassuringly, but with an edge to my voice that betrays my intentions. "What happened to Bianca Neve?"

He just looks at me, understanding filling his eyes and he reaches for his khopesh. I'm on him like a shot, not bothering to reach for my scythe or any of my handheld weapons, tackling him to the ground, smashing his hand against the ground until he drops the weapon. I stand up, dragging him to his feet, and slam him against a nearby tree. "What happened to her, Drake?!" I snarl, spittle drenching his face.

"I…I don't know what you're talking about!" He yells, trying to wriggle out of my grasp. In his struggle something silvery is dislodged from his pocket and drops to the ground. Dog tags. With the name Bianca Neve stamped on them in a final, shattering manner. I throw Drake to the ground, slowly bending over to pick up his khopesh, rising and slowly turning around to him, murder in my eyes. In our struggle the mask had come off and lay discarded a few feet away, flat on the ground.

"Those are her dog tags, Lucian." I say slowly, a tear building up in the corner of my eye, before bursting and trickling down my face. "You…you killed her, didn't you. You bastard. SHE WAS A CHILD!" I roar, taking a step towards him, my knuckles white as I grip the khopesh's handle.

"Erik, you…you've got this all wrong." He mutters quickly, stuttering and shaking. "I was there when she died…but…but I didn't kill her. You know I wouldn't kill an Outlier like that. I'm from District Twelve! It's always been the two of us, Eleven and Twelve, together in arms…remember? We're…we're brothers, you and I."

I take another step forward, drawing the sword back, about to deliver the final blow. "It wasn't me, Erik. You've got to believe me." His voice is becoming more assured now, but also more desperate. "By the time I got there, it was too late. The Careers killed her. _Sade _killed her."

I pause. "Sade?" I murmur, something stirring in the back of my mind.

"Yes, Sade. Sade Artois. She strangled Bianca, Erik. With her bare hands. She said good steel wasn't worth wasting on District Eleven scum. I'm so sorry. There was nothing I could do. I was too far away. All I could do was watch."

He was actually crying now, tears running down his face. Something in the back of my mind screams for me to kill him, that they were just crocodile tears, but I couldn't be sure. _I won't kill an Outlier._ My ears detect faint voices coming from the direction we had just come from. Obviously Maeve and Atalanta are wondering what had happened to us.

I stare down at him, my eyes filled with revulsion. "If I kill her and find out that it was you that killed Bianca, nothing's going to stop me from coming after you and gutting you like a fish, Drake, understand?" He nods at me, his eyes locked on the khopesh in my hand. I hear Maeve and Atalanta coming closer and closer. How would they react if they found us like this, Lucian about to be beheaded by his own blade at my hand? Could I trust them to believe me or would they think I had finally gone completely insane? Would they attack me? Would they try to kill me?

_Could I trust them?_

I draw the khopesh back and Lucian winces in anticipation of a blow that never comes. When he opens his eyes his khopesh has been plunged up to the hilt in the tree I had pinned him up against only moments before, and I was walking away, my back to him, mask in my hands as the sun begins to set behind us.

"Erik where are you going?!" he calls out behind me, his voice full of concern, but I pay no attention to his words.

Where am I going?

_To find Sade. To put an end to this once and for all._


	61. What's Been Going On

I know you're probably sick and tired of hearing it, but something very major came up which is why I've been gone so long.

Long story short, on March 15, 2013 my sister's dog had to have an emergency c-section. 3 out of 4 puppies lived. However, the mother (Bailey) rejected the puppies at first. For days we had to get up every two hours and hold her down so they could feed. They could fit in our hands. After that, things got somewhat better for a day or two. I thought I'd be able to get back on track. However, Bailey got sick and the puppies started getting very dehydrated.

Then we had to start bottle feeding the puppies. As it was, the puppies still had to get fluids twice which is very dangerous at their age and size (it alone could have killed them). Then they started doing better, and then one of them started doing worse. It was to the point we weren't sure if she'd make it through the night. The one that had been the largest puppy was now the smallest. She was dehydrated and lethargic. Come to find out, she had problems sucking and her "fat belly" was actually from sucking too much air.

I had to feed her every 4 hours with a syringe for quite awhile.

Finally, we've gotten her to where she can drink a human bottle with an ounce of milk every few hours. It takes some doing because she gets frustrated because she cant' suck very well (the suction breaks). Sometimes it takes a few minutes to feed her and sometimes a few hours. She may drink every two hours for 12 hours and then she may got six-eight hours without eating because she's so full.

The puppies will be 4 weeks old Friday. Last friday at 3 weeks they weighed 6 (the one with problems sucking) ounces, 7 ounces, and 8 ounces.

I don't think they'll break a pound this week.

The good news is I'm getting more than 3 hours of sleep, the bad news is I'm a little swamped with things.

I hated not updating, but the puppies lives were alot more important than this. Thankfully, after 3 plus weeks of bottle feeding this little puppy, she's finally NOT dehydrated and underweight-for the first time in her life she has a full belly because of me. It's a good feeling.

But anyways, there will be an update soon. Sat or Sunday there will be an update-if it's not the chapter (which I think it will be) then it will be the forum. So bare with me. And thank you for understanding!

-Nina/Phoenix Refrain


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